


The Fox of Prythian

by polemisti



Series: Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year [5]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Lucien Vanserra-centric, Minor Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Multi, POV Lucien (ACoTaR), Past Abuse, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Post-ACOWAR, Tamlin The Tool, Trauma, background jurian/vassa, past tamlin/lucien (abusive)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polemisti/pseuds/polemisti
Summary: “How are you?” Rhys asked as Lucien approached.Lucien thought about the question for a moment. “Better.”Better than he was when Tamlin had ripped him from the human lands a month prior. Better than he was twenty four hours ago, even.“Good. I’m so glad,” Rhys said, and he so clearly meant it, it almost hurt.-Or: The war against Hybern has ended. Lucien attempts to find a home in the Night Court while juggling the demons of his past.
Relationships: Azriel/Cassian/Lucien Vanserra, Helion & Lucien Vanserra, Jurian & Lucien Vanserra & Vassa
Series: Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896466
Comments: 131
Kudos: 106





	1. The First War has Ended

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God guys, it's here!  
> I went so many ways with this chapter and have a BUNCH of scrapped segments that ultimately didn't make the cut, but I'm really happy with the way it turned out.  
> If you're new to this series, welcome! No need to read the former works if you don't want to, but it may add a bit of context if you're interested. Either way, if you're ever confused, please feel free to ask questions in the comments! I love to dig around my old work, it helps me remember what i've actually written, lol.
> 
> TW for Chapter 1: implied suicide attempt (blink and you'll miss it)
> 
> This fic is going to focus on a couple key elements. Skip the rest of this note if you want to see it unfold as it happens.  
> 1) Lucien/Azriel/Cassian relationship development. There was a bit of protective and macho flirting in the one-shot set before this story (Courtly Promises), but I'll be developing their relationship much more in this fic.  
> 2) Lucien's relationship with his true father, Helion. As seen in my one-shot 'Courtly Promises,' both Helion and Lucien know they are related and things are currently... tense. Basically, Helion wants Lucien to join him in the Day court, while Lucien refuses to do so until he can guarantee his mother's safety, which can only happen once Beron dies.  
> 3) Lucien's relationship with the Spring Court. He still cares about the Spring Court! Balancing his love for the people who fostered him for a couple centuries and his growing hate for their current leader is going to be... interesting.  
> 4) Finally, I'll be focusing on Lucien's relationship with Jurian and Vassa. Originally, I was going to ignore the whole 'Band of Exiles' thing to focus on Azriel and Cassian more, but after writing the FIRST scene with Jurian, I knew they had to play a bigger role. TBH, they're adorable. I can already see some Jurian pining towards Vassa and some HEAVY Lucien rolling his eyes as he third wheels. I can't WAIT.

Lucien didn’t know he had cried until he looked in a mirror hours later; Tear tracks cut through the blood and dirt on his face, all of it wiped away with the swipe of a cool towel.

“Lucien,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

“Azriel,” Lucien replied, turning.

The shadowsinger had not cleaned himself. His armor was soaked in blood, his face and his wings flaking with drying mud and blood, coalesced in shadow.

“Are you okay?” Azriel said carefully. His eyes were dark with war.

“I’m fine.” That was a lie. He had been stabbed twice, had twisted his ankle, and cracked half a dozen ribs. Tamlin was less than a hundred feet away, as was Beron _and_ Eris (neither of whom were dead), and he had just watched Rhys _die_ and _come back to life_. “I’m fine,” Lucien said again.

“I—” Azriel seemed to bite his tongue, cutting himself off. “I can’t stay—”

“No! Of course you can’t. Go—”

“I just—” Azriel cut himself off again. “The Night Court tents are a hundred yards south. There is a tent for you—if you would like it.”

Lucien was silent for a moment. The sorrowed cries of the wounded were too loud. 

“Thank you.”

* * *

Lucien burned bodies. Dozens, then hundreds—he lost count. His fire, viscous and sharp—a gift from the mother he may never speak to again—met the corpses of the fallen before the crows could. He worked until the smell of blood and death was replaced with the smell of ash. He worked until the sky was hazy and gray.

“Lucien.”

He worked past nightfall, as the moon shone above them and as infection festered and killed hundreds—as blood loss became too extreme to bear.

When he didn’t burn bodies, he healed soldiers on the brink of death. Funneling himself into them, hoping that a fraction of his own magic was enough to reverse sepsis and blood loss. It rarely was. But there were more bodies—more dying people to try and save.

“Lucien.”

He worked through the first rays of sunlight.

_Thwack. “Lucien.”_

He turned. Jurian, leaning against a war tent. There were small handfuls of pebbles in his hand.

“There you are, asshole.”

“What.” Lucien said, deadpanned and exhausted and _not done_.

“Go to bed before I throw one of these between your eyes and knock you out myself,” Jurian said dryly.

“Because I’m _sure_ you’ve been sleeping all night,” Lucien said back, picking up the pebble and throwing it back. Jurian dodged the attack with an easy half turn.

“We are not talking about _me_ . We’re talking about _you_.”

“Fuck off.” Lucien turned back around. “I have more dead people to honor.” The ceremony of it all had admittedly faded in the past 12 hours. Still, there was more work to be done. More bodies to send to the wind.

“Kid—” Jurian tried, walking up to the high fae and putting a hand on his shoulder, turning him towards himself. “This is your first war. I’m not saying you have to go to bed tonight and dream of rainbows, I’m just saying you need to sleep.”

“Don’t call me _kid,”_ Lucien said dryly. It was an argument they had kept alive in the past weeks. It always went the same way.

“I’m older than you,” Jurian said dryly.

“I’ve been alive longer,” Lucien quipped back.

“Bullshit—”

“Don’t even try, you were a fucking eyeball—”

“A _sentient_ eyeball.” 

“A sentient eyeball doing jack-shit. I’m older. Don’t call me kid.” Lucien turned back away from Jurain.

“Go take a fucking nap, and I’ll consider it.”

Lucien’s groan was defeated.

“I was going to take a nap anyway—I’m not doing this because you told me to!” Lucien yelled over his shoulder, finding his way to the Night Court tents. Jurian followed him. Someone saw them and pointed at an empty tent, small, but clearly meant for someone of importance, if he wasn’t sharing it with anyone. There was a cot and a desk on the inside, alongside a bobbing faelight. Jurian took the chair. Lucien took the cot and fell asleep quickly.

* * *

Jurian had cleaned himself up by the time Lucien woke up. A bruise had bloomed on his left eye, which was swollen and black.

“You look like shit,” Lucien groaned, voice hoarse from sleep. “What time is it?”

“Lunch. Now gimme the bed.”

Lucien practically rolled off the cot, taking the seat Jurian had been using as Jurian took the cot. The human fell asleep in less than a minute, and Lucien looked at the papers Jurian had left on the desk. Preliminary deaths—Graysen’s men.

In the corner of the room, curled up on the dirt floor, a firebird laid in rest. She had been human in the night after the battle, Lucien had watched her turn. But she was firebird once again, a dark bird glowing like hot coals, burnt out and small.

A few feet from Vassa, a bucket of cool water sat. Lucien squatted near the bucket, taking the towel floating in it and wiping dried blood and ash off his arms with slow and methodical movements.

When he was done—slightly cleaner, at least—he sat down once again, watching over his sleeping friends. It was a quickly forged habit, one developed on the ship. A human reforged, a queen unguarded and cursed, and a high fae surrounded by humans. Their friendship had been destined, almost.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” a dry voice rang out from behind him.

Lucien looked to the tent’s entrance. Leaning against the wooden frame, eyes dark and armor barely wiped clean, stood Cassian. Lucien stood.

“Cassian.”

The Illyrian’s returning grin was exhausted and knowing.

“Lucien,” he offered back, light smile dancing on his face.

“You’re hurt.”

“Others are dead,” the smile shifted into something more somber.

“You’re hurt,” Lucien repeated, walking to the Illyrian, stopping a few feet away and holding up a hand. “May I?”

Cassian blinked. Once. Twice. Then, quietly, “Sure.”

He rested his hand on Cassian’s neck. It needed to be skin—anything armored wasn’t an option. And his face—that felt much too personal. His magic was searing as it channeled into the Illyrian, sharp and quick and hot. Lucien didn’t know how it felt for Cassian, who was looking at the wall behind him. He assumed it felt the same coursing into the Illyrian as it did funneling out of the high fae. Less exhausting, perhaps. Still, Lucien healed and healed and healed until his well of power felt significantly more shallow.

“I can do more—” Lucien offered, steadying himself against the small table.

“No.” Cassian assured quickly. “Please.”

_Maybe he likes the ache. Rooted deep in your bones—proof you struggled—for a bit, at least._

Lucien nodded.

“Rhys,” Lucien asked in the proceeding silence. “He’s still…” It was a question, unfinished and vulnerable. Awkward and tense.

“He’s fine. Him and Feyre have been joined at the hip since it happened.”

Lucien huffed half a laugh.

“I would be too, I think.”

“There’s a meeting tonight. You should come.”

Lucien reeled. He was still slightly dizzy from the exertions of the past day.

“I’m—what?”

“A meeting. They're planning it tonight. High Lords, Graysen. You’re invited as well, of course.”

Lucien eyed Cassian. “Yeah—okay. No—yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Cassian was silent for a moment. “It’s lunchtime.”

“I heard.”

Cassian stared at Lucien for a moment, an unreadable but vaguely exhausted look on his face. “Are you coming? To lunch.”

“I can’t. I need to watch Jurian and Vassa.”

“They’re safe here. I can put some Illyrian troops on the tent, if you would like.”

“It’s—Jurian stayed while I slept,” Lucien explained, hoping it was a comprehensible enough explanation.

Cassian paused. He looked conflicted, but understanding of a soldier’s bond. A clack of a beak—like a snapping ember. Lucien turned. Vassa, firebird, raised her head and clicked her beak again, the picture of royalty. Lucien understood the sentient well enough. _Go. I will protect him_. Lucien nodded in response.

“Nevermind,” he said, turning back to Cassian.

Cassian grinned, exhausted and amused, as he ducked out of the tent and into the camp beyond. Lucien followed.

“You speak firebird now?” The Illyrian asked.

“Who’s to say I haven’t always spoken firebird? I was raised in the Autumn Court, if you’ll remember.”

Cassian grinned in response. “How could I forget?”

* * *

The entirety of the Night Court’s inner circle were eating in the planning tent, as well as a few notable members of other courts—Thesan and his lover and captain, Aston, as well as Varian, one of Tarquin’s cousins, who sat oddly close to the dread goddess Amren. A large table stood in the center, papers and reports and weapons pushed aside in favor of bread and ale and meat. 

Cassian motioned towards two empty seats, and Lucien was quick to sit. Conversation flowed around them—complex and exhausted.

“What do you _mean_ Helion can’t meet before sunset,” Mor asked, exasperated.

“He will be mourning the Court’s losses with the setting sun. It is an ancient ritual. It will not be ignored.” A high fae representative for Helion said tersely. She was a Lady—of Helion’s southern territories, if Lucien wasn’t mistaken. He couldn’t recall her name.

From across the table, Aston scoffed from beside his High Lord. “The battle ended yesterday. He did this last night too. He’s being difficult.”

“We have lost more lives since yesterday, Captain.” Helion’s Lady said even more tersely. “The ritual lasts seven days, or until we stop losing souls. After sunset—or the High Lord of Day will not be attending.”

“I am sure we can agree on a time that works without breaking millenia-old tradition,” Rhys said smoothly, smiling politely at the Lady before turning to the High Lord of Dawn. “Thesan, can you meet after sunset?”

“It is not preferred—but it is doable.”

“Thank you,” Feyre said from beside her mate.

Beside Lucien, Cassian ate his food silently, watching the table around him. Lucien followed suit. 

"Lucien," Feyre said next, turning to the male, "You've been working with Graysen's men. Could he meet after sunset?"

"Depends on what the meeting is about." Lucien wouldn’t tell the table assembled around him—but he hated Graysen: the man and his father Nolan. Lucien was polite, he advised when he could and stayed out of the way when he couldn't, but both the young man and his father were obnoxiously set in their hateful beliefs, and were much less cordial when expressing their dislike of Lucien than Lucien was expressing his dislike for them. Most of the time, he left the Graysen business to Jurian and stayed with Vassa.

"We're trying to get everyone together—before people start leaving. To start… talking."

Lucien smiled softly.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Feyre smiled back, soft and genuine.

* * *

Lucien didn’t know how a change of clothes always appeared when he needed it, but when he returned to the tent an hour later, a simple set of Night Court clothes sat on the small table. Jurian was still asleep, and Vassa, still a firebird in the afternoon sun, had curled up closer to him, near the foot of the cot he slept on. She eyed Lucien warily when he entered. 

"What?" He asked dryly, buttoning the tent entrance flaps closed behind him. The queen did not respond.

He had mostly healed by then, but his muscles were still sore and tight as he stripped, peeling off layers of soiled undergarments. He had taken off most of his armor in the past twenty four hours, replacing Helion's extravagant set with lighter leathers from Graysen’s stash. But he doffed those leathers and the garments beneath with slow movements, facing the queen. They had all stripped together—such was the fate of three outcasts watching each other's backs on a boat for a month. They had all seen each other's scars, but Lucien still didn't like to show the long, criss-crossing scars down on his back, painful memories of a not so distant past. Just as Vassa didn't like to show the long scars down her arms, or like how Jurian got techtchy when you made eye contact with him for too long. Vassa, ever the queen, looked away as Lucien changed, tucking her head into a wing. Lucien looped the belt in his pants, from which hung his blade—a light blue stained-glass longsword gifted by Tarquin. 

With half a thought and wave of a hand, Lucien vanished the thin layer of grime he had accumulated before donning the Night Court clothes.

“Vassa. Will you stay here? I need to talk to Graysen.”

The clack of her beak was all the confirmation Lucien was offered.

Graysen was looking over a similar document as the one Jurian had been looking at—death reports.

“Lord Graysen,” Lucien nodded politely as he approached, hands behind his back. 

“Lucien,” Graysen nodded back, rubbing his eyes. He looked so much older than he had a month ago. Lucien figured they all did.

“You’ve been invited to a meeting with the High Lords after sunset tonight.”

“Where is Jurian?” Graysen asked warily, turning his full attention to the high fae.

“Sleeping. He will aid you, if you choose to go.”

Graysen paused. “And you?” he asked after a moment.

“I will aid you as well, if you require. But my primary prerogative will be introducing Queen Vassa to the assembled body.”

She was his responsibility, after all. No longer bound to Feyre’s father, who’s body Lucien had watched float away as ash on the wind the day before, Vassa was bound to Lucien while she remained away from her hateful lord. A foolish decision, really. Lucien would stand idle as Vassa burned her Lord to ash, were the action not prohibited by the very nature of her curse. She would want to meet Feyre Cursebreaker, would be elated to meet the High Lords she had heard so many stories about—some by her parents when she was young, some by Lucien himself in the past weeks.

“Yes, of course.” Graysen’s smile was thin. “I will need to speak with Jurian before deciding whether or not I will be attending. Please send him to me when he wakes.”

Lucien’s returning smile was polite and placid. “Of course, Lord Graysen.” Lucien nodded and left.

His magical stores were low, but there was still work he could do, there was still magic he could scrape from the walls of the well within himself.

He healed the wounded. When he couldn’t do that, he redressed bandages and refilled water buckets and held hands of the dying. For hours—until the sun was low in the sky.

“My Lord?”

Lucien turned. He didn’t know if he was still a Lord—by blood or by political affiliation. An unfamiliar fae met him—tall, with dark skin, large golden eyes and long braids. Day Court.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a free moment?”

He did. “Yes.”

“Follow me, please.”

Lucien followed, vanishing away the new layer of grime he had accumulated in the past hours. The fae led him north.

A portion of the battlefield had been cleared and in it stood members of the Day Court standing in a crowd, facing a central point. The fae led him to the edge of the crowd before blending into it themself, leaving Lucien on the fringes. There were no Lords or Ladies in the crowd. Only soldiers and medics, wounded and somber, and spouses and parents, sorrowful and cold. In the center of the crowd Lucien vaguely saw a kneeling figure, head hung low.

A voice— _Helion’s_ voice—carried from the kneeling figure.

_Helion is kneeling before his people._

“Fae have died under my command. As the sun sets on this day, their souls wander to the land of milk and honey. May the mother—” Helion cut himself off, emotion thick in his voice. “May the mother guide them. May they fear no evil. May they feel no pain.”

Beyond the assembly, the sun fell completely below the horizon. Lucien watched as an older female fae before the High Lord extended a hand. He watched as Helion took it and rose slowly.

The female spoke with a strong voice, “My first son died Under the Mountain. My second son died this morning,” she said when the High Lord had risen, standing almost a foot above her. She looked up at him with sharp and pained eyes. “Still, I understand that both died for a valiant and worthy cause. Allow the burden you bear to be minimal.”

Helion bowed before her.

The crowd quickly dispersed after that, the ritual complete and tears already shed.

Lucien turned away. He wasn’t sure if Helion had even seen him.

* * *

Halfway back to the Night Court encampment, Jurian waved him down, standing beside Graysen.

“Lucien,” he grinned as the man approached. “Where in the hells have you been?”

“Busy. Is Vassa coming?”

“She’ll be late. Azriel is looking for you.”

“Azriel? Why?”

“I didn’t ask. He didn’t offer. They’re waiting at the manor.”

“Okay.” Lucien turned to Graysen. “If they attempt to manipulate you, Jurian and I will stop them. Ask for what your people need, but be willing to be flexible.”

Graysen just smiled tightly. “Jurian said the same thing.”

Jurian huffed a laugh. “Great minds and all.”

“I will see you both at the manor.” Lucien nodded, winnowing to Feyre’s home. Inside, Feyre and Rhys waited, Mor, Azriel, and Cassian standing behind them. Rhys smiled brightly as he saw Lucien.

“How are you?” he asked genuinely as Lucien approached.

Lucien thought about the question for a few moments. “Better.”

_Better than I was when Tamlin had ripped me from the human lands. Better than I was twenty four hours ago, even._

“Good. I’m so glad,” Rhys said, and he so clearly meant it, it almost hurt.

Lucien nodded gratefully before turning to Azriel. “You were asking for me?”

“We just wished to make sure you knew there was a place for you beside us,” Azriel said politely, nodding his head.

“Thank you. I will introduce everyone to Queen Vassa when she arrives.” He turned to Feyre. “She looks forward to meeting you, if you can find the time this evening.”

“Of—of course!” Feyre responded. “She was— _essential_ during the battle.”

“She is just as fiery in person, I assure you.” Lucien returned with a smile.

“I look forward to meeting her.”

Azriel spoke lowly, “The first High Lord has arrived. The High Lord of Autumn.”

The mood shifted quickly, and Lucien fell into place beside Azriel quietly, watching as Beron walked past. He ignored Eris’ pitiful look, ignored the heavy wound in his cheek. More High Lords would be arriving soon.


	2. Floral Forged Bargains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... I fucked up. In chapter one, I insinuate that Jurian, Lucien, and Vassa bonded while they were out at sea. What I didn't realize at the time was that Graysen's army (and therefore Jurian) entered the final battle against Hybern with the Autumn and Spring Court, not with Mr. Archeron and Lucien.
> 
> BUT, Jurian being on the ship with them is the foundation for their entire friendship in this fic, so here's what we're gonna do.  
> In this fic, Graysen's men and Jurian hitched a ride with Lucien and Mr. Archeron (did they ever give him a name?) on the SS Feyre/Nesta/Elain. During this time, Lucien and Vassa (who quickly became friends weeks prior) became closer with Jurian (after he revealed that he wasn't, in fact, evil). They became super tight knit, as there were enemies on all sides (none of the humans really trusted Lucien, no one really trusted Jurain, and everyone was lowkey terrified of Vassa).  
> One more plot hole to patch: When Miryam and Drakon's forces joined Mr. Archeron's fleet a week or so before they arrived, they found out Jurian was on board and it took Lucien, Vassa, and half of Graysen's men to keep them from killing him before he could explain himself. Jurian is still bruised a week later (though Lucien was able to heal the broken ribs/wrist). A week later, they stopped the death glares, but they still barely trust him, and avoid him at all costs. Jurian doesn't like to talk about it.
> 
> Context for this chapter:  
> Lucien and Elain are NOT mates.  
> Aston is Thesan's captain and partner. Read more about him in Courtly Promises.  
> Lucien and Helion both know that they are related. They're keeping it on the DL. Read more about that in Courtly Promises.  
> Tamlin and Lucien were engaged in a romantic/sexual relationship for almost the entirety of Lucien's time in the Spring Court. It was abusive, Lucien fell out of love and left after Ianthe attempted to rape him in ACOWAF. After Lucien left the Night Court to find Vassa, Tamlin abducted Lucien and brought him to the High Lord's meeting to flaunt his power. It was a disaster. Read about their relationship in 'Home Again' and the High Lord fiasco in 'Courtley Promises'.

Tamlin entered the manor a few moments after Beron. Cassian watched him approach—watched as he leveled his gaze on Lucien, who stood beside Feyre and Azriel.

No one spoke as Lucien took a half step forward.

“Tamlin—”

Lucien was wearing Night Court black, Cassian realized. Much different than the greens and gold Tamlin had dressed Lucien in when he had stolen him from the human lands. Tamlin seemed to notice too. The High Lord shook his head and walked away. Cassian was glad for it.

More filtered into the room. High Lords, Drakon and Miryam, Nephelle and her wife, Kallias and Vivian, Tarquin and Varian, and Thesan and Aston, hand in hand. All nodded at Rhys and Feyre, and then nodded again, more subtly, at Lucien.

Helion was the last of the High Lords to arrive, battered and grinning. “Better enjoy this while it lasts,” he said. “I doubt we’ll be so unified when we walk out of here.”

“Thank you for the words of encouragement,” Feyre said tightly, and Cassian grinned behind her, nodding to Helion as he walked past.

Feyre turned to them a moment later, “Please, go sit. We can wait for the rest of them.”

Cassian shrugged and made his way to the room. Mor sat beside Kallias and Viviane. Lucien sat beside Elain, and they seemed to be speaking in low but friendly tones as they waited for the meeting to start. Azriel stood against the wall behind Cassian, who sat at his assigned seat near where his High Lord and Lady would be sitting. With half an ear, Cassian tuned into Lucien and Elain’s conversation.

Elain was saying, “The fog lifts more and more each day.”

“That’s good, right?” Lucien asked in return.

“I prefer clarity to the endless mist, yes.”

“Well, what will you do with this newfound clarity?”

Elain was silent for a moment.

“When I was young, I wished to travel.”

“And now? Do you still wish to travel?” Lucien asked carefully.

Elain was silent again. “Yes, I think so.”

“There is a garden in the human lands, up north by Laywick. I saw flowers there I didn’t know even existed. I can take you someday, if you’d like.”

“I would like to… I think.”

“Let me know when, and it will be done.”

Cassian watched as Lucien looked sharply to the threshold. He followed his gaze to a woman Cassian had never seen before. Her hair was unbound and wild, reddish gold. Her eyes were a striking blue and her freckles skin was golden tan. She grinned wide when she saw Lucien, and as Cassian looked back at the high fae, he saw the male’s own eyebrows were twitched up in amusement.

“May I invite a friend to sit beside us?” Lucien asked Elain.

“Of course,” Elain responded.

The woman, Vassa, Cassian realized, bounced over to Lucien with the same wide grin on her face.

“Lucien!” Her voice was lilting and odd. Melodic.

“Good evening, Vassa,” Lucien responded, exasperated.

“I met your Cursebreaker!”

“She is not mine,” Lucien corrected mildly. “How did you like her?”

“She is not confident enough. But she can break my curse. I know it. And her _sister_ ,” the queen tsked. “You were wrong. She is not firebird as I am. She is a shard of ice.”

“Don’t tell her you said that,” Lucien warned dryly. “Please, sit. This is Elain Archeron. Elain, this is Queen Vassa.”

“Another Archeron sister!” The queen turned somber for a moment. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Elain’s face twisted into a broken smile as she said, “Thank you, your majesty.”

Vassa reached out a hand, pulling the Archeron sister’s hands into her own. Her gaze was fierce and passionate as she said, “Just Vassa. We are family.”

Elain did not ask for clarification, though confusion shone through her placid expression.

“Thank you, Vassa,” Elain amended anyway.

Vassa looked as if she was ready to speak again, but Feyre and Rhys entered the room, and the room’s attention shifted to them.

Feyre’s voice was clear and unwavering, “My name is Feyre Archeron. I was once human —and now I am Fae. I call both worlds my home. And I would like to discuss renegotiating the Treaty.”

* * *

The meeting dragged late into the night. High Lords, fae, and humans alike shared their stories. Alliances fractured and the comradery of post-war alliances faded as people continued to advocate for themselves. Cassian watched it all—quiet, for the most part. He fought, he led troops, he managed strategy. He could leave the peace talks to the more qualified. He spent most of the meeting mulling over flanking strategy, what they could’ve done differently, and how to improve communication between courts and armies.

“My sentries _barely_ follow me,” Tamlin growled, cutting through Cassian’s musings.

Aston chucked from beside Thesan, “After the things you’ve done to their leader, I’m surprised they didn’t rip you from your throne weeks ago.”

Tamlin snarled, glaring daggers into Aston. “Call off your _dog,_ Thesan,” he said lowly. Thesan didn’t move an inch.

“We don’t all treat our partners like animals, Tamlin,” The High Lord of the Dawn Court said slowly. “Besides, Aston is correct. It is well known that Lucien was not only your emissary, but also your spymaster _and_ leader of your sentries. After you abducted him last month, I’m surprised you were able to scrounge up a force at all.” Thesan’s lazy gaze didn’t stray from Tamlin’s for a moment.

Lucien, who was swirling a goblet of wine in his hand as he watched the High Lords, set his goblet down with a thunk, drawing the attention of the room to him.

“Is there _nothing_ more interesting for us to talk about?”

“Yes,” Kallias agreed from a few seats away from Lucien, “I fear this conversation is getting a bit off track.”

“No,” Tamlin said, eyes a bit wild, “Thesan makes a good point. My former emissary _did_ lead my sentries. He should come back and fix what he ruined.”

“What _he_ ruined?” Feyre snarled from beside Rhys. Cassian wasn’t sure if she was implying that _Tamlin_ had caused the fractures in his sentries or if she herself had and she wished for proper credit. Either way, her rage was evident. Cassian glanced back at Lucien and saw Vassa beside him, grinning wide.

“What are you saying, Tamlin?” Lucien asked, taking another sip of wine. He looked bored.

Tamlin turned to Lucien for the first time, baring into him with that crazed stare. Lucien didn’t falter.

“Come _home_ . Help me rebuild... I know you love my court.” A _plea,_ almost. The sheer _audacity_ of it almost made Cassian burst out in laughter. The anger that coursed through him kept him silent.

“What exactly are you offering?” Lucien said. The room was silent.

“One week a month. One year.”

The room’s attention shifted to Lucien.

“One week a month… for _six_ months.”

“What kinda bullshit—” Cassian said before he could stop himself. 

“Deal,” Tamlin said.

The proceeding zap of magic—the pungent floral scent which permeated the room. A bargain struck.

The room fell silent. From across the room, Beron began to laugh, deep and mad.

“Once a whore, always a whore, aren’t you?” Beron said through his choking laughter. A fae attendant refilled his wine glass.

“I am confused,” Vassa declared in the ensuing silence.

“Lucien just bound himself to The High Lord of Spring for six months,” Jurian said dryly.

“Why?” Vassa asked.

“I’m not sure we know quite yet,” Helion said from his seat, looking bored. “Forgive me for my crassness, but who are you? I never forget a face and yours is… unfamiliar.”

“I am Vassa,” Vassa said simply. She turned to Lucien beside her. “Lucien, why would you bind yourself to your abuser?”

“My what?” Lucien said, blinking. His face was carefully neutral.

“Did I use the wrong word?” Vassa asked with wide eyes.

“No,” Aston muttered into his wine goblet. Cassian heard Thesan kick him under the table.

“He bears the burden of your scars, does he not?”

Tamlin chuckled darkly. “Amarantha took his eye, not me.”

Vassa turned to him, eyes narrowed and a faint smile on her lips.

“I was not talking of his eye. Though, if I am not mistaken, he lost it defending you, on a diplomatic mission you sent him on.” She paused. “Did he not? Even that scar is yours to bear, in part.”

“Mother save me,” Lucien sighed, thunking his head against the back of his seat. “Let me make my intentions clear to the assembled body under binding oath.” The room shifted as a new magic buzzed in the air. A binding oath—forcing Lucien to speak only the truth—a bargain with The Mother rather than with another fae. With all the magic buzzing in the air, Cassian felt like sneezing. “I struck a bargain with The High Lord of Spring so that I may ensure the Spring Court’s continued survival. The Spring Court fostered me for approximately two centuries, and I remain indebted to the people within. I plan on spending each of the coming six weeks working with citizens of the Spring Court on rebuilding infrastructure, re-establishing community pride, and building a foundation for the court which will allow it to survive beyond the coming century. Finally,” Lucien said pointedly, “While I struck a bargain with the sitting High Lord, it is his court with which I am indebted to. I owe Tamlin nothing.” The binding oath’s magic settled on Lucien’s skin and fell away. Every word he spoke—truthful, to himself, at least.

Tamlin laughed incredulously at the following silence.

“You owe me _plenty_.”

“No. I don’t. Now, I believe we still have Tarquin’s rebuilding efforts to discuss.” Lucien said with a tight smile to the silent room. Beside him, Vassa watched him with narrowed eyes. Feyre looked heartbroken from where she sat. Eris shifted his gaze between Tamlin and Lucien with deep concentration in his brow. Beron just looked bored.

“Yes,” Tarquin said slowly, breaking the silence. “Adriata still needs massive repairs. I fear my court will be of little help while we focus our energy internally.”

The conversation slowly meandered away from Lucien and his new bargain.

Eventually, a loose plan for the future was drafted. Conversation had started, and that was enough. High Lords and humans filtered out, winnowing or flying or walking to their camps. Cassian had watched Tamlin leave, had made sure he was gone. Now, he stood beside Azriel in a corner, speaking with the shadowsinger quietly about the war camp—it would need to be dismantled in the next few days. The wounded would need to be winnowed back to Velaris. Out of the corner of his eye, Cassian watched Lucien chuckle softly at something Vassa had said. She remained animated from where she sat beside him in the nearly empty room. Elain sat beside them both, soft smile gracing her features as she listened politely.

“I told my mother _I_ had broken the vase and she made me tend to the garden for a week! When I snuck to my father’s office that night to hear what he was planning, I heard him tell my mother he wished to send me away to finishing school.”

“Finishing school would have done you some good,” Lucien joked, laughing as Vassa slugged him in the arm.

“Shit-head!”

“You need to stop letting Graysen’s men teach you curses,”

“You refuse to teach me!” Vassa shot back. “Shit-head.”

Lucien laughed again. Beside him, Elain’s smile grew.

“What time is it?” Vassa asked moments later, when the laughing had died down.

“It will be daylight soon,” Elain said, concern growing on her face.

Vassa groaned loudly and decidedly _not_ queen-like.

“Fuck me!”

Elain gasped, smiling widely. Lucien shot the queen a look.

_“Vassa.”_

“Fuck you, too!” She shot back, pouting. Even then, there was humor in her voice—though it had depleted. “Do we have time to return to your tent?”

“I could probably winnow us,” Lucien shrugged.

She swatted away his outreached hand. “I can winnow myself,” she said sharply.

“Foolish of me to forget,” Lucien said carefully. “I will see you at the tent?”

Vassa huffed, mood clearly soured, and disappeared in a blink. Cassian watched as Lucien sighed and rubbed his eyes, turning to Elain with a thin smile.

“She gets a bit… tetchy… about the whole firebird thing.”

“I would too, I think,” Elain responded softly.

Azriel cleared his throat quietly, and Cassian turned his attention back to his comrade.

“Right—” Cassian said, barely hiding the fact that he had been eavesdropping. “I will put my winnowing squadrons on rest until we dismantle. They should be able to get the wounded forces moved by then, and then they can work on foot soldiers, Illyrians, and Velaris troops. Kyr’s dark bringers can winnow themselves back.”

“I will spread the word,” Azriel responded, fading into the shadow until he was no doubt back at the camp.

Cassian shifted his gaze back to Lucien, who was sitting alone now, slumping in the seat and resting his eyes.

“Lucien,” Cassian said quietly. The high fae flinched awake, looking to Cassian with wild eyes, before taking a breath and smoothing out his features.

“Yes?”

“I can walk you back to your tent. You look like you need the rest.”

Lucien scowled at nothing in particular.

“Jurian took the bed. It’s fine. I’ll—I’ll ask Miryam and Drakon for a bed on their ship.”

“You can take mine. I’ll be busy until dinner tonight anyway.”

The male looked like he wanted to fight the request, but Cassian watched as a soldier’s exhaustion won out, and he nodded.

“I’ll walk you there,” Cassian decided, turning to leave. He listened as Lucien rose from his seat and followed.

It was a good thing that Cassian’s tent was right next to Rhys and Feyre’s; Lucien didn’t know to expect the ambush until it was too late and Cassian was veering them past his tent and into the High Lord and Lady’s, where Rhys and Feyre, Azriel and Mor, Thesan and Aston, Helion, Miryam and Drakon, and Jurian waited for them.

Myriam threw a cup at him. Lucien let it hit him in the stomach.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said, grabbing another cup. Drakon pulled it from her hand before she got the chance to slug it at his head.

Cassian had forgotten that along with the Archeron father, Lucien had sailed with Miryam and Drakon’s fleet in those critical weeks preceding the battle. They must have bonded in that time, if Miryam was already throwing cups at him.

“Really, Lucien,” Thesan said from beside Aston, “I must confess, I thought you were smarter than this. The bargain you just made with Tamlin is just as binding as the one Feyre made with Rhys Under the Mountain.”

“Mother above!” Lucien exclaimed. “Do none of you have anything better to do than plan little meetings where you call me an idiot?”

“This is _Tamlin_ ,” Feyre hissed.

“I’m _aware_ ,” Lucien returned. He turned to Helion. “High Lord.”

Helion did not nod. His face was a stony cold.

“Do you remember what I told you a month ago?” Lucien continued, serious. “About Tamlin?”

Slowly, Helion nodded. “I do.”

“I need to make sure my pieces are still in play.” Helion nodded after a moment. Lucien turned to Feyre, “He let you walk into the center of his court and dismantle it from the inside out 30 minutes after you had completely betrayed him.”

“That was—it was a _mistake_ , I was _hurt_ ,” Feyre stressed.

“The only mistake you made was targeting the Court instead of the High Lord.”

“You’re not…” Jurian said quietly.

“Gonna kill him?” Lucien interjected. “No, he can do that himself. I’m just going to make sure there’s a Spring Court _left_ once he dies.”

“That isn’t your _job_ , Lucien,” Rhys pleaded.

“I’m the only one who _can_ do it,” Lucien stressed. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “It's just six weeks,” he said, quieter. Cassian didn’t know if he was convincing the rest of the room, or himself.

“Well, what’s done is done.” Thesan said tightly. “But while you’re giving your time away without concern for your well being, consider spending a week with Aston and I at some point this year. You could clearly use the break.”

“Thank you,” Lucien said, head lowered. “I’m not—” he said before Thesan and Aston could winnow away. “All of you—believe anything you want about me, but—I haven’t forgiven him.”

“Good,” Aston said, hands in his pockets and expression bored. “We haven’t either.”

Thesan and Aston left moments later. Helion soon after. Cassian didn’t say a word as he led Lucien to his cot. Lucien didn’t say a word as he curled up under the sheets and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everytime I write Aston, I fall in love with him more and more.  
> Also I love just inventing magic shit. Fuck it, if SJM wants to make it so fae can lie, then I'm gonna make a random ass ritual which forces them to tell the truth every once in a while.  
> Also, I'm feeling a bit better abt Elain after writing this. I think I can work with her.
> 
> ahhhhhhhh I can't believe I convinced myself I wasn't gonna write any more angst. lskdjsljdf; I'm a dumbass.  
> Really, I just needed to justify Lucien returning to the Spring Court after the war (because, you know, angst), and Tamlin pulling a "Hey Rhys, watch this *does the same shit Rhys did a year and a half ago*" was too fucking rich to resist. However, it's really important to me to maintain Lucien's growth (he's done enough recessing into unhealthy behaviors for one lifetime I think).  
> Plus, what do they say? "Distance makes the heart grow stronger"? I'm fucking banking on that for Az/Cass/Lucien.  
> Okay, anyways. Love yall.
> 
> Also, if you're bored, I wrote the first chapter to a Az/Cass/Lucien college AU this morning, so feel free to check that out on my profile. There is zero fucking angst in that one, is a very different tone from this fic.


	3. Morning, Dumbass

Lucien woke up with a groan.

“Morning, dumbass,” he heard from his right. He groaned again when he realized who it was.

“How the hell did you get here?” He said, keeping his eyes closed.

“You thought your new friends were the only ones allowed to call you a dumbass? Nah, hun, I made the trip and everything.”

“Alis—”

“Don’t ‘Alis’ me.” Lucien heard the woosh of metal flying through the air—felt as a heavy iron goblet collided with his temple.

_ “Fuck,” _ he hissed, feeling around for the goblet and tossing it to the floor with a thunk. “Did Miryam tell you to do that?”

“Who in the hells is Miryam?”

“Nevermind,” Lucien groaned, turning away from his friend and pulling the sheets around himself tighter. “Fuck off.”

"When I told the boys why I was coming, they didn't stop crying for hours—"

Lucien turned back around and sat up.

"Mother above, Alis, you told the boys?"

"They have a right to know that their uncle is being a dumbass—"

"I'm not—"

"You're not what? Being a dumbass? Because only a dumbass goes back  _ there _ . Back to  _ him. _ "

"I'm not—" Quieter, more somber, "I'm not going back to  _ him _ ."

Alis was equally as quiet when she hissed back, “You made a bargain with him. After  _ everything _ , you made a  _ bargain _ with  _ him _ .”

_ Too dangerous. This is getting too dangerous. _ Lucien changed tactics.

“You know what, Alis? I did. I made a bargain with Tamlin. The Spring Court—no, not the Spring Court— _ Tamlin _ —he’s the only home I’ve ever had. I  _ missed  _ him. Even after everything.”

Alis was silent for a long moment. Lucien didn’t dare look her in the eyes.

“Ward the tent,” she finally said. Lucien met her eyes—they were stone cold. “Ward the fucking tent, Lucien.”

Lucien warded the fucking tent.

When he was done, Alis spoke again, deadly calm. “I’ve watched you go back to him before.”

“And? Are you really surprised I’d do it again? Sure, we’ve had our…  _ issues _ , but—”

“Lucien, I need you to shut the fuck up for a second and listen to me,” Alis interrupted calmly.

Lucien shut the fuck up.

Alis spoke slowly, “Every time you have crawled back to him, it has been with your eyes glazed over and a bruise still blooming on your cheek.”

“And?” Lucien asked after a moment, gulping.

“Your eyes are wide  _ fucking _ open right now. Do  _ not _ lie to me.”

Lucien took a long, deep breath. He met Alis’ stern gaze with a steady gaze of his own.

_ I never could lie to you. _

“Why are you here?” He asked calmly.

“Why are you going back?” She asked in return, equally calmly.

“Come on Alis,” Lucien said with a tired grin, “You’re one of a handful of people in Prythian who even  _ can _ figure it out.”

The adrenaline fell away as exhaustion set in once again.

Lucien watched the realization click on her face a few seconds later.

“You’re going to find him.”

Lucien smiled sadly.

“Now you’re getting it.”

“You think he’s still alive?”

“I’m  _ praying _ he’s alive.”

Alis was silent for a few moments.

_ “Fuck, _ Lucien.”

“Don’t give me that look,” Lucien said tiredly.

“This is still stupid—you’re being stupid.”

Lucien scoffed. “Says the female who travelled halfway across Prythian to call me a dumbass and throw a cup at my head.”

“No, I stand by that decision. You  _ are  _ a dumbass. You’re just a different kind of dumbass than I thought you were.”

Lucien smiled softly. “And what kind of dumbass is— _ shit.” _ Lucien dropped the wards in a second as—“Cassian.” The Illyrian general nodded as he entered the tent.

“Lucien, Alis. Feyre wanted me to invite you both to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Lucien asked. “Was I out all day?”

Cassian nodded. “The meeting ended this morning.”

_ “Fuck.” _

“Eh,” Cassian shrugged, “You’re fine. Dinner?”

Lucien was  _ hungry _ .

“Sure. Alis?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said with a polite smile. Cassian led them out of his tent and into the meeting tent nearby. Inside, a familiar group met them. Feyre and Rhys—Feyre, in deep conversation with Nephelle and Azriel, Rhys, in deep conversation with the Morrigan and the Dread Goddess no more, Amren. Vassa appeared to be wooing Elain with tales of her youth, and Jurain sat beside the pair, smiling softly at the queen. No one else. A smaller dinner, then.

“Lucien, Cass, Alis!” Feyre exclaimed when she noticed their entrance. “Please, sit, sit!”

Dinner was simple, but good, as most food in the Night Court seemed to be. Alis didn’t speak a word of what they had spoken of in the tent, for which Lucien was grateful. Oddly, no one mentioned anything about Lucien’s most recent decision to return to the Spring Court.

_ Good, _ Lucien decided,  _ I really don’t want to talk about it anyway. _

Despite the unspoken-of topic hanging in the air, Lucien allowed himself to enjoy the dinner.

* * *

Following dinner, there was more work to do. Lucien tended to injuries which had not yet been tended to—those deemed too minor to be healed via magical intervention before now. A few bodies, identified and mourned, required burning. Lucien met each task silently. When he was done with those, he began to pack. He donned his Day Court armor. He pached his Winter Court bow and Dawn Court waterskin in his Night Court pack. He strapped his Summer Court blade to his belt.

“Get out,” he said the moment he felt the male’s presence impede on the tent.

“Lucien—”

“Get out.” Lucien said again. He turned from the bed, strapping an Illyrian dagger to his belt. Eris stood before him. The male was still healing from the gash in his face. Despite the wound, his half-brother maintained a pompous and aloof expression.

“Lucien—” the male tried.

“There is no good reason for you to be here,” Lucien countered before he could finish.

“I have something for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s from Mother.”

Lucien paused.

“What is it?” He said a moment later.

Eris’ mouth thinned into a decidedly douchey line.

“A letter.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re her favorite? Hell if I know—”

“Why’d she give it to you?” Lucien rephrased.

Eris paused. “Probably because she knew I was the only one who wouldn’t open it,” he said with a shrug.

“And why’s that?” Lucien asked with a cold expression.

Eris scoffed, “Because I don’t need to read a letter from a broken  _ whore  _ to become High Lord. Our other brothers would convince themselves that Mother had written something worth writing and opened it themselves.”

The ward Lucien forged a moment later was simple: Eris could no longer leave the tent. Not by winnowing, and not by walking out. Furthermore, any cries for help would not pass the canvas walls which confined them. The magic Lucien wove was burning and calculated and endless in its immutable rage. By the way Eris’ eyes flashed, he must have registered the trap Lucien had built around them both.  _ Good. _

Lucien spoke, low and calm, “You may not need to read Mother’s letter to become High Lord, but you  _ do  _ need to be alive.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Eris asked carefully, grinning a bit.

“I’ve killed brothers before,” Lucien returned with a somber grin of his own. “You should remember, you’re the one who sent them after me.”

_ That _ struck a nerve. Lucien watched Eris’ nostrils flare.

“I had to, you pathetic  _ mistake _ ,” Eris hissed back. “I had to make your escape seem believable—Father would have killed me if he knew I knew about you.”

“Not this again.”

“Yes,  _ this again _ ,” Eris hissed, “You are only standing here threatening to kill me because I  _ saved _ you two centuries ago.”

“You sent me to  _ Tamlin _ .”

“Yes, and that was obviously terrible. So terrible, in fact, that you’re returning to him in a few hours. Mind explaining that one?”

“Not really, no,” Lucien bit back.

The two were breathing heavily, the argument practically knocking the wind from them.

“Give me the letter,” Lucien said a moment later.

“Whatever,” Eris hissed, flinging the letter from a jacket pocket to the dirt floor between them.

“When’s the last time we actually had a conversation?” Lucien asked a few moments later.

He already knew the answer.

“A century ago. Day Court,” Eris said.

_ When Lucien had confronted Helion. When Eris had just ‘happened to be in the Day Court,’ and had insisted Lucien and him ‘catch up’. When Eris had revealed he had known Lucien’s true parentage for a century and a half, and that it was him who had allowed him to escape the Autumn Court after Jesminda’s death. _

“I hate you.” Lucien said a few moments later. He hated the emotion that caught in his throat as he spoke.

“I know,” Eris responded, tired and broken.

“Get out.”

Eris turned as the wards fell away. He stopped before the threshold.

“We are both going to be High Lords one day,” he said slowly. “This rage you harbor for me? You should really get over it before I start taking it personally.”

Lucien picked up the letter from the dirt as his half-brother left the tent.

* * *

The rest of his goodbyes were less eventful. Jurian gave him an odd look and told Lucien he’d see him soon. Vassa punched him in the arm. Feyre hugged him tightly, and Rhys told him exactly how to winnow back to Velaris without spending four days on short jumps. Thesan and Aston didn’t offer any goodbyes, and neither did Helion (the latter, Lucien was grateful for). Miryam pulled him into a tight hug and Drakon squeezed his shoulder, promising assistance from Cretea, were he ever to need it. Mor gave him an odd look, as did Amren (though, Lucien noted that their odd looks were decidedly  _ different _ , somehow). Alis pulled him into a hug and whispered in his ear that he was a dumbass, and Graysen didn’t seem to understand what was going on enough to understand why he would need to say goodbye to Lucien at all. Elain did not seek him out and neither (thank the Mother) did Nesta. Cassian offered to replenish any depleted supplies in the ‘oh-shit bag’ and Azriel had done nothing but stare at him for a couple seconds before fading away into shadow. All very soppy, and all very unnecessary, in Lucien’s opinion.

“I’ll be in Velaris in a week, if I am still welcome.”

“Of course you’re welcome,” Feyre said with large eyes.

“Then I shall see you in a week,” Lucien said kindly.

“We’ll hold you to that,” Rhys said carefully.

Tamlin was waiting for him south of the camp.

“Tamlin,” he offered with a nod.

“Lucien,” Tamlin said with a grin, and  _ oh, this was going to be easy. _

“I’m ready when you are.”

“You always were.”

Mother above, did Lucien hate the smell of roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I'm really proud of this chapter. Last chapter I was pretty neutral on, but I'm digging this one. Let me know how you felt about it in the comments!
> 
> Eris Eris Eris! I finally got to write Eris, and let me tell y'all, it's FUN. He's such a dick but in such a complex way, I love it so much.
> 
> Alright, that's all I have for y'all tonight. I'll try to update at least one more time before Christmas!  
> Until then, bug me on Tumblr @lucien-stan


	4. Spring Court: Week One of Six - Part 1

Lucien should have expected the ruin that met him back in the Spring Court. Dying roses clung desperately to the thorny vines they were attached too—pungent and sickly. The hedges were beginning to lose their shape to overgrowth, and the entirety of Rosehall seemed abandoned. The sentires Tamlin had winnowed from the war camp said nothing as they winnowed off themselves—where, Lucien didn’t know.

“The servants?” Lucien asked when they were alone.

“They left.”

Lucien turned. Whatever false sense of bravado Tamlin had been wearing in the war camps faded. There was just disillusioned bitterness on his face now.

“How many deaths?” _How many had Hybern come in and killed?_

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the first thing we should find out.” Tamlin said nothing. “I can saddle the horses,” Lucien continued a moment later.

“No,” Tamlin said quickly. “We will winnow.”

Lucien stared at him for a long moment.

“Did you kill my horse?” he asked eventually.

Tamlin’s heavy gaze was answer enough.

Lucien had liked that horse. She was a fighter. Lucien didn’t assume Tamlin had made it quick. _Bastard._ He took one breath, and nodded.

“Then we shall winnow.”

They visited the closest village, first. Ruined. Half a dozen survivors; They didn’t look Tamlin in the eye.

The next village was much the same. The one after that, even less survivors. Most houses were burnt to the ground. Most fae were dead or missing, ripped apart by Hybern’s forces. Their bodies were bloated with maggots and pecked away by crows.

Lucien offered them quick prayers, and even quicker flames, watching the ash faded into the wind. He took a mental note of those he recognized. If they had any family—if he found their bodies nearby. Some families died together. Others were missing mothers and daughters. A few families were missing sons.

Tamlin said nothing. The survivors they encountered said nothing either. The only words uttered were prayers. Prayers which, ever since Ianthe, felt dirty on Lucien’s lips. He uttered them dutifully nonetheless.

After many long hours, the day was done. Bodies burned, inventory taken. Survivors noted. One of seven days complete.

Tamlin winnowed them back to Rosehall.

Lucien expected his room to be trashed. Feyre’s had been after Mor had taken her to the Night Court. It was odd, then, when Tamlin led him straight to his room, opening the door and revealing it to be untouched. Lucien nodded and walked in, closing the door behind him with no ceremony. No good night.

It smelled… stale. Hints of fear had survived in the months of disuse—saturated in the blankets—a sour odor. Returning, the space didn’t _feel_ like his room, even if he had slept here longer than he had slept anywhere else in his life. He was approaching his first century when Tamlin gave him this room. He was early in his third century as he returned.

His bed, at least, still looked comfortable.

Lucien was tired. His bones ached from months of labor. His magic was depleted to the most simple of tasks. He could winnow, but more intricate magic-craft was too straining—he didn’t know when he would be able to magical minuta like that again. A day? A week? A month? He hadn’t pushed himself this hard for this long in… ever, actually.

But he hadn’t agreed to return to the Spring Court so that he could burn bodies and watch Tamlin mope. He could sleep when he was dead.

Lucien waited for Tamlin to fall asleep. He did, an hour later. Lucien walked down the hall, and further down the stairs, silent and quick. There was a door by the kitchens, Tamlin wouldn’t notice him slip out. He reached it and—warded. 

_Damnit. Fuck._

The whole manor. If he had a bit more power, he might be able to pry a hole large enough in the wards to repair when he reentered in the morning. But at the capacity he was at now, he could only cut and slash at the wards. Effective, maybe, but noticeable. Tamlin may actually kill him when he inevitably noticed the next morning. Even if Lucien did pry open a hole big enough to slip through unnoticed, he _definitely_ wouldn't be able to winnow to where he needed to go afterwards. He’d be stuck wandering Rosehall until morning.

_Fuck._

Reluctantly, and bitterly, Lucien returned to his room.

The bed was less comfortable than he remembered.

* * *

He woke with a start. Blinding sunlight streamed in from the east window.

“Tamlin?” Lucien called, voice hoarse.

No response. He grabbed a shortsword off his desk and headed to the door.

_Something is wrong._

He was walking slowly as he left his room. By the time he reached the parlor, he was sprinting, sword unsheathed.

Tamlin was nowhere to be seen. _Fuck—his office._

One left, one right. A short hallway. Second door on the left.

 _There._ Tamlin was there, dressed in his _formal wear_ , and—

“Andras.”

He looked the same. The scene flooded back to him—almost two years ago, in this very office. The sun, too bright, too happy in the sky and Andras _begged_ Tamlin to send him over the wall.

“No,” Tamlin growled as he had almost two years ago.

“High Lord, we are _running out of time_.”

“It doesn’t _matter_.”

 _“Tamlin,”_ Andras hissed, slamming his fist on the dark wood desk.

“Watch yourself,” Tamlin warned lowly, claws extending.

“Andras,” Lucien repeated. “Andras, what’s going on?”

Andras turned to him. He looked so— _heartbroken._ “Lucien. I—help me out here.”

Lucien remembered this part, too.

Lucien turned to Tamlin. “Send me.”

This time, Tamlin really did growl. _“No.”_

Lucien didn’t think it was going to work anyway. It hadn’t the first time.

“High Lord,” Andras tried again, “If you don’t send me out, I’ll die anyway. Let me—let my death have a chance of _meaning_ something.”

Tamlin was silent for a long moment.

“Fine,” he eventually spit out.

“Thank you, Tamlin,” Andras said with a sad smile.

“Andras,” Lucien asked more desperately as the sentry left the office. “What’s—What’s going on?” He felt the emotion thick in his throat.

Andras said nothing. Lucien grabbed him by the arm. His skin was so warm—Lucien hadn’t expected it to be warm.

“Andras,” Lucien asked again, pleading. “Please—what’s going on?”

Andras turned, scrunching his nose and smiling. His dark skin glowed in the morning sun. “Let’s have a drink, Luce.”

Fifty years ago, when the curse had just been bestowed on the Spring Court, they would send the sentries off with a celebration. Drinks and feasts and fires. By the time Andras had left, there weren’t enough sentries left to hold a feast.

Lucien took Andras’ hand and let him winnow them to a soft clearing near Rosehall. He pulled a bottle of bourbon from a deep pocket in his overcoat.

“I stole it from Tamlin’s stores,” Andras grinned, taking a swig and offering the bottle to Lucien. “I’m calling it an early Calanmai bonus.”

“It's well earned,” Lucien said thickly, taking a swig from the bottle. “Why are you here?”

“You haven’t figured it out?” Andras asked. “You’re dreaming.”

Lucien huffed a laugh, handing the bottle back to Andras. “I figured that much out, dumbass.” They drank in silence for a few long minutes. “I’ve never dreamed of you before,” Lucien said, staring at the morning sun. It didn’t hurt his eyes. “Not like this.”

Beside him, Andras laughed. “I’m wounded, Luce.”

Lucien didn’t respond. Beside him, Andras grew sombor.

“Feyre will kill me tomorrow. She’ll shoot me through the eye, skin me alive and—”

“Stop,” Lucien begged, unshed tears growing in his eyes. “Please.”

“You’ll hate her in the beginning. But she’ll grow on you.”

“I know—” Lucien said, choking. “I was there, idiot.” He took another swig of the bourbon.

“Were you?”

“I—yes.”

“You were _there_ , sure, but when was the last time you were really _awake_?” Andras asked, taking another swig of bourbon.

“Is that what this is?” Lucien asked.

“Hm?” Andras hummed, turning to Lucien. He held out a hand, scarred from years of swordplay. They used to spar together. “Come on. I have something to show you.”

He winnowed them south, to the icy human lands. To Feyre, young and angry and starving as she kneeled over a wolf. Steam rose from where she cut. The squelch of blood was nauseating.

“I didn’t feel anything—if it makes you feel better,” Andras said from beside him, shrugging.

“It doesn’t,” Lucien responded thickly.

“Come on,” Andras prompted as they stared at Feyre. As they stared at—“Why am I showing you this?”

“I—I don’t _know_ ,” Lucien said thickly, shaking.

“Yes you do.”

Before them, Feyre panted, smearing blood on her forehead with the back of her hand as she wiped away sweat.

Lucien took a shaking breath.

“I… I don’t—”

“Think about it,” Andras said plainly.

Lucien woke with a start, shaking and sweaty and crazed. The sunlight which streamed in from the eastern window was much softer.

He let out a long, shaky breath. And another. And another.

Six more days.

* * *

Lucien found small tasks for him to complete in the following days. Inventory, initial census, checking in with local survivors. Each night, he tried to leave the manor, and each night, he found it warded. His magic did not replenish, not as his sleep provided no real rest. Thus, he could not leave.

Andras did not return—not as he had the first night. But his form, skinned and bloody, was a regular character in his nightmares. 

* * *

Lucien was reluctant to sleep at all on the sixth night—the last night before he returned to the Night Court. But he had yet to get a good night’s sleep in what was going on two months now, and his body gave him little choice as sleep overcame him that night.

“There’s a weakness in the ward,” Andras said when Lucien woke. He was in his bed. Andras was in his large chair near the crackling fireplace.

“Where?” Lucien asked, bleary and confused.

“Northern servant’s exit.”

“How—how do you know?”

“Because I'm you, Luce,” Andras said with another sad smile. “Andras is dead. I’m just… whatever part of you that wishes he wasn’t.”

Lucien sputtered. “Then why—”

He woke up alone. No sunlight streamed in from his eastern window. Fractured rays of moonlight illuminated his rug instead. Before midnight.

There was a weakness in the ward. Almost impossibly specific—if he kept his left foot an inch to the left of where a painting sat shredded and discarded on the ground, he could winnow out of the manor. And so he did.

Once he was out, he winnowed twice. The village he found himself in was completely unlike how it had looked fifty years ago. The houses were burnt to the ground, smatterings of rubble and iron on the dirt roads. But unlike the other villages and townships Lucien had visited that week—there were no bodies here. In their place, bloodstains and discarded pieces of clothing. Someone, a group of people, maybe, had dragged the bodies away. Slowly, Lucien followed the trails of blood and clothing north.

A meadow. Freshly turned soil—the moonlight shone on fourteen graves.

But no gravedigger.

Lucien looked for hours. Nothing. Sunrise would come soon.

He winnowed back to Rosehall. Back to the northern servant’s entrance.

Now, all he had to do was find a way back in. _It had to be here._

 _There_. If he put his right hand an inch to the right of the door frame, he could—

“You could just knock, you know,” Tamlin said, opening the door. His claws were already out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not simping4bookboisngrls FULLY guessing who I was bringing back for this chapter over on tumblr.
> 
> Also, did I cry writing this? Yeah, a little.


	5. Because He Earned It and I Wanted To

“Tamlin!” Lucien said as the High Lord opened the servants entrance.

_ Fuck. I can winnow—maybe. I have all my gear: my gifts from the High Lord—the bow, the blade, the waterskin, the potion, the sigil, and the armor, along with Cassian’s pack. I could just—leave. _

“I warded the manor for a reason,” Tamlin said, his grin wide and feral. He stepped forward. Lucien, against his will, stepped back. There was nothing but open spring fields and cresting sunrise behind him. Why, then, did he feel so trapped under Tamlin’s stare?

Lucien kept quiet.

“You left my court,” Tamlin said after a moment, eyes shining with rage. “You don’t get to come back and prance around like I used to let you.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Lucien scoffed before he could stop himself, “I  _ ran  _ your court.”

“Did you?” Tamlin asked slowly, taking another step forward. Lucien, another step back.

“I—”

_ Bad idea, Lucien. _

_ Speaking of bad ideas… _

“Even now,” Lucien hissed, “You sit like a lazy  _ dog _ while I keep your court from complete collapse.”

Tamlin growled. Lucien smelled blood. He looked down—Tamlin had cut his own hand with his claws.

“You have no idea the  _ restraint _ it takes for me to keep from ripping out your throat.”

_ “Why?”  _ Lucien hissed, taking a step forward. Tamlin did not take a step back. “Is it because you’re a High Lord? I used to believe that lie, Tamlin, but  _ not  _ anymore.”

Tamlin’s feral grin grew. “No, Lucien, not because I’m a High Lord.” Tamlin took a clawed hand and gripped Lucien’s face. Lucien felt a drop of hot blood drip down his chin. “It's because I can’t stand the sight of your whorish face.”

Lucien remained very still.

“I used to tell myself I cared about you the same way you cared about me,” Tamlin continued. “That I  _ loved _ you like I said I did.” He lowered his hand, wiping the blood on Lucien’s arm with distaste. “The truth is, you were never anything more than a good emissary and an even better hole to fuck.”

“You think that hurts?” Lucien tried a moment later. It did hurt, but hell if Lucien was ever going to admit it. “I had to babysit a temperamental manchild for two  _ centuries _ .”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Tamlin said, cocking his head. He drew a taloned claw down Lucien’s cheek slowly. “You fell for me harder than you ever loved that lesser fae whore Jesminda.”

“You are making not killing you very difficult, Tamlin,” Lucien said slowly.

“You want to kill me?” Tamlin said sweetly. “Let’s say you manage it. The High Lords may even forgive you. Rhys and his whore mate definitely would. What happens when fifty years from now, you realize that I was the only one who  _ ever  _ understood you.”

“You don’t understand me,” Lucien hissed under his breath.

“Don’t I?” Tamlin asked sweetly, words laced with venom. “I know you’ve been having nightmares all week. I know that even after everything I did to you, you wished you could come back—that we could go back to  _ normal _ .”

“Shut up.”

“I know all those masks you wear.” His talon traced under Lucien’s healthy eye. “I know you told Amarantha you loved me more than you loved the sun and air and watching the leaves change—and I know you cried like a  _ child _ when she took your eye.”

“Shut up,” Lucien repeated, quieter.

“I remember when you came crawling back to me,” Tamlin said, tracing his claw under his metal eye, now. “I held you in my arms and promised I’d make it all better while you sobbed. Did I ever tell you that that was the moment I knew I could never love you?”

The Illyrian dagger at the former emissary’s hip found purchase in less than an instant.

Lucien heard the squelch of Illyrian steel as it pierced the High Lord’s abdomen.

Tamlin hissed, bringing his clawed hand down, slicing a cut open on Lucien’s face.  _ “Whore.” _

Lucien tried to winnow back as Tamlin brought his fist down, but he wasn’t fast enough. Lucien heard the crack of bone reverberate in his skull as his nose splintered under the High Lord’s fist.

Lucien was knocked straight to the dirt below. Tamlin was quick to straddle the male, bringing his fist down, and down again. More bones broke. Even more as a ruinous blast of wind radiated from Tamlin, pushing the air from Lucien’s lungs and splintering debris which scratched and scraped at Lucien’s exposed flesh.

_ Fuck. _

_ Fuck, I’m going to die. _

He couldn’t winnow away, not like this, not as Tamlin gripped his armor in one hand and pummeled his face in with the other. The pain was sharp and deep and awful and—

“Get up,” Tamlin snarled, winnowing a few feet away. “You pathetic  _ whore, _ get up and fight.”

Lucien staggered to his feet.

Tamlin was right. Lucien could kill him. The High Lords wouldn’t care—they’d thank him. But they’d carve this court up in pieces and distribute those pieces amongst themselves before a new High Lord of Spring had the chance to fix Tamlin’s wrongs. And if there was no obvious heir... 

Foxes weren’t foxes because they always won. They were foxes because they knew they had to occasionally lose a battle in order to win the war.

He took a breath, wet with blood.

“I’ll see you next month,” Lucien said, and winnowed north.

* * *

When Amarantha had a grip on all of their powers, it would have taken Lucien days to reach the Night Court. With sentries and no clear direction, it had taken him almost a week. But now… he jumped once—almost out of the Spring Court. He jumped again—now he was on the border between Autumn, Summer, and Winter. He had never winnowed this far, didn’t know if he’d ever be able to winnow this far again. Blood poured—he couldn’t see through it. Multiple bones were broken—his  _ face _ . He was going to collapse. One more jump, and he had crossed winter. The Mountain stood in its awful glory before him.  _ I’m going to die. I’m losing too much blood.  _ He couldn’t  _ think  _ past the pain, he was going to collapse and no one would find him and— _ the vial _ . Around his neck hung a small vial—a potion Thesan had given him during the High Lord’s meeting all those months ago. Lucien had never asked what it did, but if Thesan had given it to him, it likely healed— _ somehow _ . Lucien was quick to open it and swallow the contents. It tasted like iron and sugar. The rush it offered was immediate and dizzying. And the  _ power _ coursing through him—the magic he had access to.

_ Winnow. Winnow now, while you still can. _

He winnowed. He winnowed again.  _ One more. Just one more. _

He winnowed again.

Velaris. The City of Starlight. Before him—two townhouses. Rhys and Feyre’s to the left. To the right, the guest townhouse. Cassian used the bottom floor, and they had offered Lucien’s the top floor during his initial stay.  _ That’s the one. _

_ Inside,  _ he had to get inside before anyone noticed him. The townhouse door unlocked for him as he approached.

He could barely see—there was still blood in his eyes. He was dizzy and sick. Thesan's potion was  _ weird _ and his blood and sinew felt like it was on  _ fire _ . Upstairs, he had to get upstairs. His bloody hands slipped on the handrail, and he pushed himself up each stair with difficulty.

_ The bed. Get to the bed. _

He made it to the bed.

_ Don’t fall asleep. Rest, heal. Don’t fall asleep. _

He didn’t know if he was saying it outloud or not. The adrenaline was wearing off, everything  _ hurt. _

_ Everything is on fire, why is everything on fire? _

Vaguely, he heard a commotion below.  _ Uh-oh. _

_ “Az,” _ He heard a voice roar from downstairs. “Wake up. The hell’s going on?”

_ Stay awake. _

Another voice. Hoarse and slow, “I don’t know. Someone’s here.”

“They got past the wards?— _ fuck, _ it’s Lucien!”

Lucien groaned.

A moment later, two winged figures appeared at the doorway.

“Good morning,” Lucien said deliriously before falling unconscious.

* * *

When he woke, the first thing he noticed was how dry his mouth was. The second thing he noticed was an ever present shooting pain across his entire face.

“It’s a good thing you were wearing armor,” a dry female voice said from beside him, “I don’t want to think about what you would’ve looked like without it.”

“Where am I?” Lucien asked hoarsely.

“The Night Court,” the voice responded. Lucien heard glass vials clink. “Half of the Night Court’s government is pacing a hole through the floor downstairs, if you’re interested.”

“Hmm?” Lucien said—no energy to articulate his confusion beyond that.

“Cassian threatened to, and I quote, ‘march his armies into the Spring Court and show Tamlin what happens when you assault a member of the Night Court’ barely five minutes ago.”

Lucien groaned, pushing himself up with his unbandanged arm.

“Why—why is my arm bandaged?” he asked hoarsely, looking down at his other arm.

“He—your assaulter—broke it. From the way it broke, and the claw marks on your chest, I’d reckon he kneeled on it when he climbed over you.”

Lucien groaned. “When will it heal?”

“Well, that’s the weird part. It’s almost already completely healed already. In fact, the moment I got here, half of your wounds had already begun healing.”

“Thesan,” Lucien said a moment later, to no one but himself.

“Whatever it is, it worked. You’re bruised to hell, and healing isn’t going to be pleasant, but it’ll be quick. And most of the major work has already been done.”

“Any scars?” Lucien asked.

“No new ones, no.”

Lucien hummed his acknowledgement. A moment later, he turned to her. A healer. He could’ve guessed that.

“Who are you?” He asked, squinting. The expression hurt. He elected for something more neutral.

“Madja.”

“Thank you, Madja. Can I stand?”

“No heavy lifting, don’t get your heartrate up, and I want to see you again tomorrow to see how your healing is coming along… but yes, you can stand.”

“Thank you.” Standing was… a challenge. But doable. Lucien was thankful Madja didn’t offer to help. “One more question,” Lucien asked when he was near the door. “How long have I been out?”

“Only a few hours.”

Lucien nodded, and opened the door.

The first thing he noted was the blood. Bloody handprints on the wall, blood spatter on the floor and smeared on the doorway. As he approached the stairway, he found even more blood smeared on the handrail.

“Shit,” he murmured to himself. He’d clean it magically, but he really didn’t have the energy for that, and—his reflection, in a mirror. He looked like shit. His face was black and swollen, his hair caked with blood. But nothing was broken anymore, thank The Mother. Just… tender. Someone—Madja, he assumed—had removed his armor and bloody clothes and replaced them with clean night court attire. His left arm was bandaged, but didn’t hurt—much. His right arm was bruised. Lucien groaned.

The stairs were… fine. He made them down fine.

Whatever arguing Madja had heard seemed to have died down. Lucien didn’t hear anything but quiet conversation from the sitting room below.

“I haven’t heard anything yet,” Rhys said. He sounded exhausted.

“I’m sure Az will send word soon,” Feyre said in response.

Lucien watched them murmur amongst themselves from a distance. They hadn’t noticed him yet. It was Mor, returning from the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey, who first noticed the injured male.

“Lucien!” She said, startled. Even now, she was skittish around him. Never openly afraid—not The Morrigan. But she avoided him for the most part. Luckily for both of them, perhaps, her exclamation got the attention of those in the sitting room, and the pair weren’t expected to engage in any polite conversation as the Night Court’s Inner Circle turned their attention to the pair.

“Lucien!” Feyre parroted, standing. She looked—awkward, Lucien decided. She looked awkward as she wrung her hands and stared at Lucien oddly. She, at least, spoke. The rest—Rhys, Cassian, and Amren, just stared. Azriel and the Archeron sisters were absent.

“Something on my face?” Lucien tried.

No one laughed.

Scratch that—Lucien swore he saw Amren grin behind a manicured hand.

“Mother above,” Lucien said after a moment, “Can I have a drink, at least, before you all start gawking?”

Mor poured him a drink. Feyre offered Lucien her chair, leaning against her standing mate.

“How are you feeling?” Rhys asked when Lucien had sat.

“I’m—fine.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Feyre prefaced. “But… it might help… enlighten the…”

“I stabbed him,” Lucien said plainly as Feyre trailed off.

“Did you…” Feyre asked in the ensuing silence.

“No,” Lucien answered.

Mor took a sip of her whiskey. “Shame.”

Cassian huffed with a feral grin. “I can have the Illyrians at Rosehall by nightfall. They can finish the job.”

“It wasn’t a  _ job _ .” Lucien hissed, wincing slightly from the pain. “And it doesn’t need to be  _ finished _ .”

Cassian whirled to Lucien, clearly ready to argue his point. Something stopped him as they made eye-contact, and Lucien watched the general pause and turn back to Rhys.

“We can talk about it later. For now, everyone fuck off.” Cassian waved them off. “I’m serious,” he continued. “My least favorite thing when I was healing was seeing your ugly mugs. Get out of our townhouse.”

The inhabitants of the room seemed to understand the hint Cassian was so obviously dropping, and excused themselves with haste, until Cassian and Lucien sat alone in the sitting room.

“You can take my room,” Cassian said after a long, silent moment. “Less stairs.”

“I can walk up stairs,” Lucien deadpanned.

“Nevermind then,” Cassian shrugged.

Lucien watched the Illyrian as they sat across from each other.

“You don’t get to use me to justify your rage,” Lucien said eventually, watching Cassian calmly.

“What?” Cassian asked after a moment, squinting.

“He hurt your High Lady. You hate him and you want to kill him.”

Cassian denied none of the claims. Lucien continued.

“For some reason you barely understand, Rhys won't kill Tamlin for what he did to Feyre. He’s your High Lord, and your High Lady’s mate, and so you aren’t allowed to call him an idiot for his decision. But now  _ I’m  _ here, and I was  _ also  _ hurt by Tamlin.”

“What are you implying?” Cassian asked roughly from his seat across the room.

“I’m not implying anything,” Lucien said plainly. “You do not get to  _ use  _ me to justify your hate for him.”

_ I’m finished being a pawn. _

Cassian looked like he wanted to argue. But he stopped himself, and looked at Lucien for a long moment.

“Rhys sigil. It’s in your left pocket.” Lucien squinted. He moved his left hand to his left pocket. Inside—a smooth dark stone. Madja must have moved it from his old bloodied pants when she changed him. “If I focus, I can feel its—energy.”

Lucien stared at the Illyrian as he pulled a matching stone from a pocket in his armor, weighting it in his open palm.

“As long as you have that stone, you’re one of us. Rhys and Feyre lead us, Amren advises us, Mor speaks for us, Az spies for us, and I  _ fight  _ for us.”

“I barely know your little Inner Circle. Why do I even bear his sigil?” It wasn’t a trick question—Lucien just hadn’t figured it out.

“Because he gave you one,” Cassian shrugged like it was simple—like he had an answer at all.

“I’m being serious,” Lucien tried again.

“So am I. I asked him the same question when I found out he gave you one.”

“And what did  _ he  _ say?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘because he earned it, and I wanted to.’  _ Elusive bastard.” _

Not because Rhys felt like Lucien would need it. Not even because he felt obligated.  _ Because I earned it and he wanted to. _

Lucien didn’t allow himself to ruminate on the reality that the Illyrian before him may be telling the truth. It was much easier to believe that Cassian wished for Tamlin’s demise because of Feyre or a host of other reasons than it was to believe the Illyrian was so fiercely loyal to Lucien, a male he barely knew, because he saw the man as a member of the little inner circle he was a part of. Lucien wasn’t  _ one of them _ . He was a guest of many courts and inhabitant of none. The little room upstairs wasn’t his home, it was a room Rhys was allowing him to crash in. This—was exhausting. Lucien was exhausted and in pain.

“I’m going to bed,” Lucien murmured, rising with minor difficulty and heading for the stairs. “Thank you—for kicking them out.”

“Any time,” Cassian said from his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh okay okay I wrote the first half DAYS ago but just couldn't figure out how to finish it, and then this lovely scene between Cassian and Lucien appeared and I got to deal with a little TRAUMA and a little bit of Lucien not feeling like he belongs and it was all great and wonderful.
> 
> Merry 'one day after Christmas'! Whether you celebrate or not, I hope you had a wonderful day! (Also, if you do celebrate and want to brag about a gift you gave/received, my comment section is OPEN).
> 
> Okay, that's all I have for y'all. Updates are definitely gonna slow down once school starts again, but I'll try to keep semi-consistent.


	6. Do You Like to Cook or Bake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit since I last updated, so here's what happened last chapter:  
> Tamlin and Lucien got in a fight while Lucien was in the Spring Court to fulfill a deal he made with Tamlin directly after the war against Hybern. Tamlin beat the shit out of Lucien, Lucien winnowed back to the Night Court, took a potion so he wouldn't die, and then fell unconscious in the townhouse he and Cassian are both staying in. He woke up, everyone was worried about him. Cassian kicked the inner circle out of the townhouse so Lucien could have some breathing room, and Cassian and Lucien had a conversation about the sigil Rhys gave Lucien in 'Home Again'. Then Lucien took a nap.

When he woke, it was dark out. The sun had just set, the last rays of light shining over the city beyond. From the bed, Lucien stared out the window, watching the brilliant red and orange rays fade over the horizon in favor of the twinkling faelights of Velaris below.

He heard a soft knock on the door, and his voice was raspy and harsh as he called out, “Come in.”

Azriel opened the door. Ever since their spar at the Dawn Court, Lucien had found it easier to read the male. Right now, the Illyrian was calculating, concerned, and carefully neutral.

“I heard you left,” Lucien said from the bed. He was still in a set of glorified Night Court pajamas, sitting on the soft bed as the Illyrian in full leathers stood at the doorway. Lucien didn’t ask where Azriel had gone—his stiff posture told Lucien enough.

“Yes,” Azriel nodded. “Cassian asked me to bring you dinner.”

There was a bowl in his hands, Lucien realized. Soup. The smell nearly made him dizzy. When was the last time he ate?

Still, Lucien tensed instead of leaping to the meal.

“I can eat at a table.” He said tersely. “I’m not an invalid.”

Azriel paused. The shadows which gathered on his wings were thick and viscous, and they shifted with an unperceivable breeze.

“Then I will meet you downstairs,” the Illyrian finally said, softly closing the door behind him as he left with the bowl of soup.

Lucien looked… better… he realized, standing and examining himself in a mirror in the adjoining bathroom. The swelling had reduced already, and while his face was still horribly bruised, he no longer looked like a bloated water nymph corpse in the summer heat. His skin was still purple and black, and his hairline was still coated with flaking blood, but… better.

There was a sponge by the sink. He wet it and wiped away some of the dried blood, which cracked and melted down his face as it dissolved. He wiped that away too. He didn’t bother changing.

Cassian and Azriel were in the small dining room near the kitchen when Lucien came downstairs. Cassian was dipping a hard bread in his soup, speaking to the other Illyrian in gruff tones Lucien couldn’t focus on. Azriel was nodding along in front of his own bowl of soup. A third bowl sat before an unoccupied seat. Lucien sat.

“I found no such thing,” Azriel countered whatever point Cassian had made.

“Fine, fine,” Cassian waved him off. Soup sprayed from his mouth and on the table before them as he spoke.

Azriel was subtle as he pulled his bowl closer to himself, out of Cassian’s spitting range.

“Do you cook often?” Lucien asked Cassian, cutting through the silence.

The Illyrian shrugged. “Rhys’ mother taught me. I try to make dinner whenever I have time.”

“Is this an Illyrian dish?” Lucien asked.

“Kinda,” Cassian said between bites. “The meat is supposed to be an Illyrian yak, but I just got chicken from the market down the street.”

“A worthy substitution,” Lucien said solemnly. Cassian grinned.

“Do you cook?” Cassian asked a moment later.

“I used to bake,” Lucien said after a moment. It was an odd set of memories—a collection which he didn’t know whether to look back on with sadness or with joy—another life. Baking pastries and bread with his friends in university, and then later, with Jesminda.

“I hate baking,” Cassian said in the proceeding silence. “Too much measuring.”

“I like the measuring,” Lucien countered. “You can’t tell me you just— _ guess _ , when you measure ingredients.”

“He’s better at it than he used to be,” Azriel said, and the expression on his face was horrifyingly genuine.

“It's not my fault you’re too polite for your own good. You should’ve told me it was too spicy, asshole.”

“I thought it was supposed to be made that way,” Azriel said dryly.

Cassian turned to Lucien, grinning, “He was shitting for three days.”

Lucien heard Azriel kick Cassian under the table.

Lucien, despite his shitty mood and shittier week, smiled.

* * *

He was quick to return to bed after the meal, body still heavy with exhaustion. Faintly, he heard Cassian and Azriel continue whatever conversation they had been having before his arrival. He wasn’t aware enough to pick out the words as he helped himself up the stairs and into the bed.

The days passed quickly and uneventfully after that. A lot of sleeping, a lot of brooding, and a lot of prodding at his wounds as he healed. Madja visited a few more times, murmuring jargon as she worked, seemingly shocked at the speed of his healing. He didn’t offer the explanation she seemed to crave.

Sometimes Cassian would cook. Other times, when Cassian was gone, a servant appeared, who delivered meals to the room, which Lucien ate at the desk. Azriel was there occasionally, but only when Cassian was, and only ever downstairs, in Cassian’s ‘area’. Lucien didn’t know what the pair were to each other, but ‘brothers in arms’ seemed like an understatement. Lucien was raised better than to ask such potentially awkward questions, and avoided bringing up the subject.

Lucien read, when he had the energy. He wrote letters to Alis, and then became too lethargic to try and figure out the cross-court postal system in a city no one knew about a year ago, and quickly stashed them in a drawer to be dealt with at a later date.

He went on walks. There was never a good time to walk to avoid stares. During the day, people were out and the sun shined on his face like a beacon, illuminating his bruises and general grumpiness for all to see. During the night, the population of people out barely changed, and just as many people were beyond the walls of the townhouse to stare at him. And stare at him they did. Feyre had mentioned at a dinner once the oddness of not being stared at in Velaris. Lucien decided he had no idea what she was talking about. People here stared at him all the time. So, he walked at pre-dawn and twilight, when the least amount of people were out and about.

He realized two weeks in, that he missed his sword. The weight of a blade in his hand, the feeling at it glided in the air, guided by his body. And thus, on the second day of his third week, he grabbed his Sea Glass Sword, a gift from Tarquin, and made his way to the rooftop.

The drills were familiar. Half turn, simple downward thrust, block. Repeat, switch to another drill, and repeat again. He had done the same drills for hundreds of years. Originally, under Beron’s harsh instruction, and later, in the training yard of the Spring Court. Now, he did them in the morning sun, gaze glazed as he looked out upon Velaris. There was nothing to hit up there. He didn’t dare ask for a training dummy. His wounds were all but gone, limited now to a greenish bruise under his eye and the webbings of similar bruises under his dark silk tunic. The drills helped remind him of where he was still injured, but he managed.

“Want a partner?” He heard from behind him. Lucien repressed a sigh. It was only a matter of time before someone bothered him. This time, it was Cassian. His own blade was strapped to his side, and he was wearing his full Illyrian leathers.

_ Did they ever leave their homes without their get-up?  _ They had to. He had seen Cassian and Azriel in regular clothes, but it was rare, and only ever in the townhouse he was currently swinging a sword on the roof of.

“Sure,” Lucien said, resigned to be pulled out of his own thoughts for however long Cassian would spend time with him.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Cassian said with a grin laced with challenge. Lucien didn’t rise to it. Today, it was probably best to let the Illyrian general go easy on him. He could prove himself tomorrow, or the next day.

Eyes narrowing at Lucien’s responding shrug, Cassian unsheathed his blade, falling into an easy and light stance. Lucien stepped into his own, similar stance.

They only skirmished for an hour, neither of them breaking a sweat, and both taking frequent breaks. True to his word, Cassian went easy on Lucien, and Lucien in turn used the skirmish to practice footwork, form, blocking, and basic offensive attacks. Cassian, for his part, let him.

Lucien called it when his stomach growled for the third time and the sun was high in the sky.

“I can make food,” Cassian offered quickly, and Lucien didn’t level him with the look itching to take over his features. He just smiled mildly and nodded, following him down to the kitchen on the bottom floor.

Cassian made sandwiches. Lucien accepted it with a nod and ate it in silence, still standing in the kitchen.

“Oh!” Cassian said through a mouthful of food. “A letter came for you. It's the whole reason I came looking for you.”

He pulled a letter, unbent and undamaged, from a pocket in his armor. Lucien turned the heavy paper in his palm, still warm with Cassian’s body heat. The seal was Dawn Court. Thesan’s personal sigil, no less. He broke the seal delicately, opening the letter. The script was scrawling and looping, though he had clearly pressed quite hard into the paper. Angry, perhaps.

_ Lucien, _

_ You’ve had time to recover. I expect you are a mere day or two from being fully healed. As long as my blood runs through your veins, a temporary connection has been forged. That connection has allowed me to make sure you have been healing. It will fade in the next few days. _

_ You’re an idiot. Aston is threatening to set the Spring Court on fire. I am inclined to agree with him. Stop being stupid. _

_ Your friend, _

_ Thesan _

Lucien read it three times. As he moved to read it a fourth time, a piece of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill appeared on the kitchen island before him.

The High Lord expected a response, then. Across the kitchen, Cassian was cleaning up. Lucien picked up the quill.

_ High Lord, _

_ I’m fine. I promise, this is all part of my master plan. Please do not set the Spring Court on fire. I apologize that I had to use your potion for such a silly matter, but I appreciate the gift. _

Lucien paused.

_ Your friend, _

_ Lucien _

The parchment disappeared. A minute later, a new one appeared, rolled and sealed. Thesan’s seal again.

_ ‘For such a silly matter?’ Lucien, your face was caved in. It will do you well to remember that it is my blood which healed your wounds, and thus my soul which knows the extent of your injuries. Do not lie to me—not about your own health. Lie instead to Cassian, who I can smell on the parchment you sent over. _

_ You are a fool. Visit soon. _

_ Thesan _

No blank parchment arrived for Lucien to fill out. Conversation over, then.

“Everything okay with Thesan?” Cassian asked when Lucien begun helping him with dishes.

“He’s mad at me,” Lucien divulged.

“About?” Cassian asked, scrubbing.

“He found out about the Spring Court. He said I was stupid.”

“You are stupid,” Cassian shrugged, and Lucien wondered if he was close enough with the man to slug him on the shoulder. Probably not. He resisted the urge. “You’re healing well,” Cassian said a moment later. “I would’ve expected a beating like that to last a few more weeks.”

Lucien shrugged it off. “Must have been mostly surface wounds. Looks worse than it is.”

Cassian was silent for a long moment.  _ Had Lucien done something wrong? _

“You’re lying,” Cassian said after a moment.

“Hm?” Lucien asked, turning towards the Illyrian.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

Lucien paused. A moment later, he went back to drying a plate.

“If I am? What does it matter?”

Cassian narrowed his eyes even more, before relaxing a fraction, and resuming his scrubbing. “I suppose it doesn’t. You are ‘The Fox’, after all.”

“An old epithet,” Lucien said carefully. He hadn’t heard it used outside of his own mind in a long time.

“But an apt one, apparently.”

Lucien turned, stopping his drying once more. Cassian had hit a nerve, and he knew it, if the calculating look in his eyes was any indication.

“I was taught,” Lucien said carefully, punctuating every word. “That a guest does not burden his host with the gory details of their injury. I was not aware customs were so different in the Night Court.”

“A guest?” Cassian said with a playful grin which Lucien did not feel matched the tense nature of the conversation. “You have as much a right to this place as I do.”

His…  _ grin. _ It  _ infuriated  _ Lucien in a way he hadn’t felt in  _ centuries _ . This playful  _ game _ was  _ exhausting _ .

“We can drop the idealistic bullshit while Rhys isn’t here,” Lucien shot back harshly. “This is your house. I’m not going to pretend to have any claim to it while I  _ crash  _ here.”

Cassian leaned back against a counter, crossing his arms and grinning.

“Well, now I know why foxes aren’t known for being intelligent. Just  _ clever _ .” He formed the word mockingly. Lucien’s nostrils flared. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he was being so irrational. The much more vocal part of him pushed him to bite back.

_ “Fuck you,”  _ Lucien snarled, setting down the plate.

“Fuck off,” Cassian shot back as Lucien headed for the door. “You’re just pissed we view you as one of us. You don’t think you  _ earned  _ it, and are lashing out.”

“I’m  _ pissed _ ,” Lucien said, whipping around, “Because I have to sit and watch as a bunch of fools manage  _ somehow _ to run an entire court seemingly off the power of  _ friendship _ . I’m  _ pissed _ because despite what your childish ideals may claim, this can  _ never _ be my home. Call me stupid all you like—from my side of the room, I’m the only realist in hundred mile radius.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “You think this is easy? You think that I wake up each morning and fuck around? A  _ war _ just ended—I  _ am  _ busy.”

“Doing what? Braiding friendship bracelets with the Illyrians?”

Cassian scoffed. “Holding vigils, actually.”

Lucien stopped. He had to stop, before he said something he couldn’t take back. He couldn’t winnow in here—the old wards prevented it—but he stomped away, up the stairs, and back to his room. It was only then he realized he only had a few more days before he would need to return to the Spring Court. The thought soured his mood further, and he fell asleep grimacing and with a minor headache.

_ Fuck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week two of the quarter just ended! Yay me! I was glad I was able to slowly get this chapter written and edited, and while idk when I'll update next, I hope you guys like this one in the meantime. I have a lot of angst and gooey love and trauma recovery and fluff planned lmao. So I'm excited for all of that.


	7. Spring Court: Week Two of Six: part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: gore related to an animal corpse (specifically gutting and skinning animals)  
> Chapter summary in the comments.

Despite his claims to Cassian that he was merely crashing at the townhouse, Lucien did leave a few items there as he readied to return to the Spring Court. An extra set of clothes, two unopened letters—one from Amren, given to him before he left for the human lands, and one from his mother. Most embarrassing of all, his coin collection. Coins from all seven courts—one of the few things he had brought back from the Spring Court on his last visit, stuffed in a bag and forgotten about until unpacking. His most recent additions included notes and coins from the human lands, souvenirs of his last visit on Prythian’s behalf. They sat unorganized in a leather pouch, stuffed in a drawer in the room’s desk. _Stupid_. But, after the year Lucien had had, he would allow himself one stupid hobby. A few other things would remain in the Night Court as well. Knick knacks he had picked up over the past year, a heavy coat that would be excessive and unnecessary in the perpetual tepidness of Spring, and most of his gifts from the High Lords. No need to bring gold plated armor, a sacred bow, and a sea glass sword with him to the Spring Court. A short sword and his leathers would service him just fine.

He made no grand announcement upon his departure. He simply winnowed away. A few jumps through various courts, and he was there, in the suffocating mildness of Spring. The pungent floral scent of Rosehall, which Lucien had grown to hate, wasn’t as strong as he remembered. As he looked to the rose garden, it became clear why. White, red, and pink roses which had barely clung to their thorny branches in his last visit had fallen to the soil below. It was only a hedge of thorny vines now. Lucien supposed it was rather poetic, if not unsettling in its implications. Tamlin hadn’t _died,_ had he? Surely he would have heard about it if he had.

“My lord!” he heard a voice call from beyond. He followed it’s familiar tenor, stilling when he saw the form.

Bron, fully armored and stern, hand on his sword hilt and brows furrowed.

“Bron,” Lucien said carefully. He pointedly did not mirror the gesture, his hand hanging at his side and his face a picture of confused neutrality.

Bron approached, all heavy steps and hard lines. Lucien stayed still, fighting the urge to either step _forward_ and draw his blade or step back and do… well Lucien didn’t know what.

The sentry stopped a few feet away, nodding deeply. Not a bow, but close. Lucien relaxed a fraction.

“He’s inside,” Bran said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tamlin—he’s inside. Don’t worry, my men won't let him touch you.”

Lucien raised a hand, silencing the sentry. “I’m sorry, slow down. What’s going on?” Was the male _giving Lucien a report?_

Lucien watched Bron’s response carefully. The sentry was confused for a moment, but it shifted into a sense of determination, as he rolled his shoulders back and straightened his coat.

“We were too late to help you last time. We didn’t even realize anything had happened until we smelled—” he faltered. Lucien’s gaze remained steady. “Until we smelled the blood on his hand and—on the grass. We—we almost killed him for it. He let us, too. Didn’t fight or nothing. It was like he… well anyway. He’s inside. When he leaves, which he rarely does, my men escort him. We won’t let him pull that shit again.”

Lucien looked at the male for a long moment. His gaze was steady and determined, but he was tired. His shoulders sagged a fraction, and there were bags under his eyes. He seemed to straighten at Lucien’s examination.

“Furthermore, we’ll make sure you stay safe too. I already have sentires willing to work as a guard force and keep you safe—”

“Absolutely not,” Lucien said sternly. “What you do with your High Lord is your business, but I can take care of myself.” Bron looked like he wanted to argue. Lucien made sure his facial expressions, body language, and piercing gaze left no room for debate.

“Yes, my lord,” Bron finally said.

“Wonderful,” Lucien said with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m going inside now.”

Bron took the dismissal for what it was, nodded again, and left, heading towards the sentry house. Lucien headed for the door.

Somehow, it looked worse than last month. Mud tracked in and uncleaned—the servants hadn’t returned, then. Dust was already accumulating on the tables and railings, undisturbed. No sound of footsteps or smell of food emanated from the back of the house. Tamlin wasn’t even in his study, throwing things or yelling at people. According to the sentries, he was in the house, but if not for their word, Lucien would have assumed the house empty. He headed up the stairs. To the right, second door on the left. When he opened his door, it still smelled faintly of fear, like it had a month ago. Also exhaustion and… and Tamlin.

He had been in here. He hadn’t destroyed anything, but he had been in here. Lucien could imagine him sitting on his bed and reading seat by the fire—flipping aimlessly through his books.

Lucien just sighed and set down his pack, closing the door to his room behind him. He wanted to take a nap—the fact that it wasn’t even lunch time was the only thing that kept him from doing so.

Ugh.

He headed down to the kitchens after unpacking. He had skipped breakfast in Velaris, food the last thing from his mind as he contemplated the coming week from the townhouse. Now, hours later, he was beginning to regret it.

The kitchens were empty. Of course they were. No heat radiated from the wood stove, keeping the room warm. No servants bustled about, insistent on preparing a meal worthy of a High Lord. The small windows were shackled, the space shrouded with a dry darkness.

The pantry was void of food, the buttery void of ale. He couldn’t go to the village—if last month was any indication, people were much more focused on feeding _themselves_ than they were on selling bread and meats.

He found a spool of wire gathering dust in a half opened drawer.

The snare was simple. He caught a rabbit within the hour, snapping its neck and building a fire right there in the forest. The thought of returning to Rosehall any time soon resulted in a pit growing heavy in his stomach.

The fat dripped off the animal into the coals below, sizzling and popping on impact.

He stared at it as the meat browned.

“You always were a moping son of a bitch.”

Lucien whipped around.

“Andras.”

His old friend shrugged, leaning against a tall cedar tree. There was blood on the corner of his mouth, and Lucien watched him wipe it away. “Guilty.”

“What are you doing here?” Lucien hissed. Hallucinations? This must be a hallucination.

Andras cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t I be here?” He said, and there was a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

“Because—” Lucien _stammered. Mother above, he was stammering now._ “Because I’m awake, for one. Because you’re dead, for another,” he finally settled on.

Andras just shrugged again. “I want to show you something.”

Lucien didn’t say anything for a moment. He should have expected this. He looked back at his rabbit. He wasn’t even that hungry anyway.

When he rose, he was cold.

The chill was immediate, sinking into his bones—cutting through his armor. 

Before him, it was darker. The sun was lower in the sky, snow dusted the trees. Before him—Feyre, kneeling before a familiar form. Steam, rising from hot blood.

“You showed me this last month,” Lucien tried, keeping the thickness in his voice to a minimum. “You’re getting a bit repetitive.”

They were beyond the wall in deep winter. Two years ago.

Andras barked a laugh, unexpected and full of mirth. When he turned to look at Lucien, there was a freeing grin on his features. His gaze turned a mocking somber. So playful, his dead friend.

“I told you to think about it.”

“I did,” Lucien responded, lying with grace. He had done everything _but_ think about it. He wasn’t going to tell Andras that.

“And what did you decide?”

Lucien shot him a look.

“That you’re fucked up for showing me your own corpse being mutilated and cut for meat.”

Andras rolled his eyes. He wore a simple tunic and pants—Spring Court attire. But Andras did not shiver in the snow like Lucien did.

“If you had done as I asked, we wouldn’t have to look at this again.”

It was Lucien’s turn to roll his eyes. The rage came in an unexpected flash, heating his face.

“Mother above, Andras. What do you want me to say?” Andras shrugged, noncommittal. There was still a playful smile on his lips. “That your death made me sad? Of course it made me sad, dumbass. I’m sorry I’m not crying about it every Mother-damned day. Shit has _happened_ , a war has begun _and ended_ —Tamlin killed my horse and caved my face in and scarred and whipped me. I’m not going to sit and cry about _you_ every fucking day!”

The words rang hollow in his own ears.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said when Andras said nothing.

Lucien felt a hand on his shoulder—much too warm to be from the dead. There was something different in Andras’ gaze—something… _proud._ Lucien hated it.

“Don’t worry about it,” the male said with his familiar grin.

“I _should_ worry about it, I was being a dick.” The flash of rage was already dissolving into sickly guilt.

Andras laughed again. “I’m not _real_ , idiot. The only person you’re offending is yourself.”

Lucien huffed a breath instead of responding.

Andras let them stew in the silence until Lucien spoke again.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to stop these nightmares—or hallucinations or—” whatever they were. “I read about this, you know. Back in university.”

“I know,” Andras said. Of course he knew.

“Last time, you said you were me—just a fragment of memory. You were wrong.” For a moment, there was no easy grin on Andras’ face. “Mother-sent spirits, _tormentors_ brought back from the fields of poppies and honeymilk to exact suffering on their victims. That’s what you are.”

Lucien heard the squelch of blood as Feyre made a deep cut into Andras’ flesh.

When Andras did finally speak, Lucien could barely detect the hints of a tortured soul in his tone. “It’s more complicated than that, Luce.”

“Explain it.”

Andras huffed a laugh. Lucien didn’t miss the hint of tension.

“Not today.”

Lucien woke up with a start. He was in his bed in Rosehall—his bag half unpacked beside him. _A nap._ He had taken a nap. The sun was setting out one of his windows. As the seconds passed, the faint smell of snow and blood faded from his pallet.

* * *

Tamlin was downstairs, gutting and bleeding a stag. He said nothing as he slid a knife over to Lucien. Lucien said nothing in return as he took it and began digging for organs.

The smell of blood returned. _Better than rabbit._

* * *

As night fell, Lucien considered leaving the estate—as he had last month. But Tamlin hadn’t dropped the wards, and was still within his rights as a High Lord to kill him if he tried to leave unaccompanied again, so Lucien didn’t bother.

Maybe tomorrow.

Despite the looming threat sleeping seemed to bring in Rosehall these days, Lucien felt the tug pull him to his bed when the moon sat high in the sky. And who was he to resist?

“Andras,” he said a few hours later. His dead friend had dropped the dreamlike pretence—they did not sit in Lucien’s bedroom, but back in the cold woods, the scent of blood and snow heavy once again. “Can we leave?”

“You haven’t done it yet.”

“Done what?”

Andras paused for a moment. “I’ll know it when I see it,” he decided a moment later.

“I already yelled at you,” Lucien reminded him in response, tired of the stench of blood and the hatred in Feyre’s eyes as she drew it from the corpse of his friend.

“That wasn’t it,” Andras offered. “You should get closer.”

Lucien glared at Andras, but the male didn’t return the look as he stared at his corpse and his corpsemaker.

Lucien huffed out a ‘fine’ and took a tentative step forward.

He didn’t know why he expected Feyre to look up. This was a memory—not one of Lucien’s, of course, but a memory nonetheless. Feyre did not look up. Lucien took another step. The snow crunched under his feet. The wind whipped in his hair. Things became more _real_ the closer he stepped to the epicenter of this awful place.

Feyre’s face was covered in blood, he realized a moment later. Her hair was dyed a dark red, her braid wet with Andras’ lifeforce.

One more step.

For a brief moment—shorter than a second—Feyre _did_ look up. She made eye-contact with Lucien—terrified and confused. Then, she shook her head, as if dispelling Lucien’s image, and brought her knife back down into the wolf’s thick fur coat. He crouched. At his feet, blood pooled, staining his boots and melting the snow.

Feyre didn’t look up again. She didn’t even seem to realize Lucien was there as she reached into her boot and pulled out another knife—poorly made and glinting in the low light. She was silent as she handed it to Lucien.

Lucien was silent as it was set in his open palm.

She had already split the hide, and was working tirelessly and methodically as she pulled out his bladder, intestines, liver.

Distantly, Lucien wished for the haze which used to accompany him at times like this to shroud his perception of the world around him once again. He wished it would dull the stench and heat and his own heartbeat and he wished it would pull the choice of this from him as it had so many times before. He wished he could hoist this burden on the Mother, or the Cauldron, or Tamlin, or a dozen other awful forces. But as he broke Andras’ ribs with a set of sickening cracks, pulling the ribcage apart and reaching— _reaching_ for something—there was no haze. There was no one to blame but himself and his own hands, stained so dark as to almost look like they were dripping with dark molten glass.

He didn’t know what he was looking for—but when he found it, it became so obvious. He cut the organ away from its rightful place with his own methodical and systematic movements, pulling it slowly from the corpse.

A heart.

Faintly—oh so faintly—he heard Andras hum an affirmation behind him.

“I told you I’d know it when I saw it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it feels so fucked up to post that and then be like 'omg we got a new chapter!! how was your week!' in the endnotes  
> but... um... we got more Andras?!  
> and the sentries? They're back!  
> Hope you enjoyed?
> 
> also this chapter was definitely a bit more trippy than others, so if anyone is confused, drop it down in the comments and I'll try to explain.
> 
> Things I learned writing this chapter:  
> Where they kept ale in medieval manors: a room called the buttery  
> How to make a snare for a rabbit  
> how to skin and gut large game.


	8. Spring Court: Week Two of Six: part II

He was stuck. Someone was holding him down. Lucien thrashed. There was a dagger under his pillow—another one under his mattress. He reached blindly for it, grunting. Yelling for help wouldn’t do him any good. He couldn’t think straight enough to winnow. He heard the tearing of fabric—silk.

His reality came crashing down in a merciless wave. He was freezing, despite the tepid nature of the Spring Court. He was in his bed, and no one was holding him down but his sheets, which had entangled him in their masses. There was a dagger in his hand, and he had cut open the sheets in his frenzy.

His left arm was covered in blood.

He flinched away like it wasn’t his own arm he was flinching from, stifling a shout. The sheets were bloody—likely due to his thrashing, and he felt hot blood slide down his face, from when he had tried to protect it in his madness.

He allowed himself two shaky breaths.

He opened his eyes. He was still covered in blood.

_ Fuck _ .

There was a bathtub in the bathing room adjacent to his room. Usually, a servant would fill it with steaming water. Lucien supposed he could muster up enough magic to fill and heat it himself, though the mere prospect sounded exhausting. He did it anyway.

When he was in the tub, staring down at the water which grew redder by the minute as more blood washed off his skin, he contemplated the idea that he was truly insane.

Maybe this life had broken him. Maybe after a childhood surrounded by psychopaths vying for power and a first love which ended in the death of Jesminda, two of his brothers, and all of his friendships, followed by an unbalanced relationship with a High Lord, losing his eye, being tied up and touched by a priestess, and a war to top it all off, he had simply gone mad. And who would blame him, really, if he was?

But, if he was being honest with himself, he’d admit that he wasn’t crazy. And he’d admit that the idea of  _ that _ was much scarier than the idea that he was simply going mad.

He wasn’t an idiot. The symbolism was obvious in the morning light.

He had hated Feyre for what she did to Andras. And watching her gut him like she had—the  _ rage _ in her eyes. The  _ hatred  _ as she cut him open and pulled out his fucking stomach. How could he befriend someone so  _ angry _ ? She had followed up on that rage a year later—pulling the Spring Court apart seam by seam until it was nothing but scraps for Hybern’s taking. And now what? As long as he remained in the Night Court, she was his High Lady, and he was— _ apparently— _ a member of her inner circle. Was he just expected to what? Forgive her? He had seen first hand what her rage accomplished— _ twice now _ .

And then there was the part Lucien didn’t want to think about. The part where  _ he _ had picked up the knife too. He had dug around in Andras’ corpse and pulled out the male’s  _ heart _ . And Andras had  _ wanted _ him to. Or, at the very least, he hadn’t seemed too concerned when Lucien had done it.

And what did that mean? If Feyre was a force of rage, what was Lucien?

That wasn’t too hard to deduce either.

He was a spineless pawn.

Everything he had done in the past  _ two hundred _ years had been for Tamlin and  _ his  _ court. He had built alliances and gone to dinner parties and killed dozens and organized spies and shut down revolts and tortured for  _ Tamlin, _ so that Tamlin  _ might _ bend him over a table that night and fuck him to half conciousness. Because he  _ loved _ Tamlin. When  _ Tamlin  _ had told him to shut up, Lucien shut up. And when Tamlin told Lucien to be quiet as Andras begged Tamlin to send him across the wall to be slaughtered by a stupid human girl, Lucien had been quiet. And now, Andras’ blood was literally on Lucien’s hands.

It was easier for people to call Lucien a hapless victim. Rhys and Feyre implied it, Alis said it outright. But as he stared at the bloodied bathwater, he wasn’t a victim. Not like everyone said he was. He had spent the last 3 centuries warping and twisting his morals and ideas for whoever offered him a scrap of love. He had done  _ awful _ things for  _ centuries _ because of this addiction.  _ He _ had sent Andras over the wall just as much as Tamlin had. And he had killed him just as much as Feyre had.

And wasn’t that a lovely thought to ruminate on over breakfast.

Lucien took another steadying breath.

Six more days.

* * *

Nine days later, a note sat waiting on Azriel’s desk, in a shorthand which felt dated and out of place. Jurian.

There were only nine words, simple and to the point.

_ Your Fox is here. Don’t bring the whole Court. _

He stopped at Rhys’ townhouse before he left. Rhys and Feyre—as he expected—were willing and  _ insistent  _ that they accompany Azriel to wherever Lucien had gone off to. But Azriel, for his own part, was hesitant, and told them as much. The pair eventually receded, and Azriel was ready to leave, calling the whole thing resolved, when Cassian walked in.

“Any word?” he asked, tense. He barely hid his worry for his roommate through a plastered grin. Azriel had to agree with the sentiment. After Lucien hadn’t returned to Velaris three days ago, the shadowsinger had immediately sent for word from the Spring Court, and had heard nothing. The entire inner circle had been on edge ever since.

“He’s with Jurian,” Rhys said neutrally.

Azriel watched Cass process. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. His brows turned from worried to confused to determined.

“Are we going to get him?” Cassian asked a moment later, settling into the new reality.

“The note seems to imply we should,” Feyre said, concern lacing her voice. “Az has offered to go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Rhys seemed to read the exhaustion in Azriel at the offer, for he cut in, “It’ll only take an hour, at most. And I doubt Az will enjoy pulling you both through the shadows on your way back.”

Cassian wanted to fight it. Azriel could see the argument forming in Cassian’s mind.

“I will leave within the hour. The two of us will be back before dinner,” Azriel tried. He wasn’t the ‘diffusing’ type more than he was the ‘fade into a corner and hope no one noticed him’ type, but he hoped the words resonated. The must have, for Cassian huffed, but dropped it, raising his hands in surrender.

“Fine. Just bring him back soon. He still needs to do the dishes.”

Rhys threw something at him. “It’s been a week and a half. You haven’t done dishes?”

“Of course not,” Cassian said with a shrug. He had caught the item Rhys had thrown—a paperweight—in midair. “It’s Lucien’s turn.”

“I will be on my way,” Azriel offered his dismissal with a nod, fading back to his apartment to grab supplies.

It was less than an hour later when Azriel arrived at the small castle. He had followed the subtle pull of Rhys’ family crest, the only one of its kind outside of Velaris—which he knew would have been in Lucien’s possessions. Besides, Jurian hadn’t offered him an address. As he arrived, his wings and other fae features masked by a simple glamour, and shadows tamed and hidden to the point where it nearly exhausted the shadowsinger, Azriel took in his surroundings.

The castle was defensible—though not from much. It was the lodgings of a warlord at most, not a queen. And if Jurian was the one who had sent the letter, then Queen Vassa was here along with him. They were in the human lands, though hidden safely on Prythian, south of the former wall, rather than the larger continent. Azriel suspected the lodgings were temporary.

A small village surrounded the castle, protected by a wall manned by human foot soldiers Azriel reckoned he could incinerate with half a thought.

Two main gates—though the wall was made of wooden logs, so Azriel could always create his own gate—if the dire need arose. Less than a dozen guards on the wall—

“Welcome to Perrigwyn Keep.”

He had forgotten how sneaky Jurian was. His rebirth via the cauldron seemed only to enhance that feature.

“Jurian,” Azriel offered. He was ten feet away—far enough to avoid any weapon blow, but much too close for Azriel’s comfort. Had he been so lost in thought, or was Jurian really just that quiet? Azriel reckoned it was a bit of both.

“Good glamour, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Azriel’s voice was dry as he responded, “Liar.”

Jurian grinned.

“You wanna come in?”

Azriel nodded, gesturing for Jurian to lead the way. Jurian mocked a bow, and headed towards the village.

No one seemed to notice them as they walked. Jurian had that sort of quality—anonymity among humans. Azriel remembered it from the war—the man’s ability to slip in and out of rooms, war camps, countries—without notice. And Azriel, half a head taller than everyone around them, a fact only hidden by the glamor and the mild slouch he had adopted, was able to do much the same, albeit to a lesser extent, and with the assistance of more magic.

“He arrived two days ago,” Jurian was saying, barely louder than a whisper, and a few paces ahead of Azriel. “Said something about building us wards.”

Azriel didn’t respond. He’d need to speak louder for the human to pick it up, and in this crowd of humans, he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. Jurian didn’t seem to mind, and continued speaking.

“Worked for a day, had dinner with us, and he’s been holed up in his room ever since. Won’t come out for meals, won't respond when we knock—I’d say he had left if I could open the damn door to his room.”

The castle was ahead. Jurian took them past the initial bridge, and around the back to a kitchen entrance. Then, they were walking up a narrow set of stone stairs, and through a narrow hallway. Servant’s corridors. Count on Jurian to know all the passages in any location.

“What do you want me to do?” Azriel asked in the silence.

“Gods if I know,” Jurian said with a shrug. The sentence threw Azriel off for half a second. Humans didn’t worship gods anymore. Then again, Jurian wasn’t like other humans. He had been alive before the high fae had stripped the humans of their creators. Azriel filed the turn of phrase away. “Get him out of his room? On a walk—at the very least.”

Azriel was a very metered male. When he felt anything other than mild irritation or boredom towards a situation, he wasn’t quick to show it. Still, Jurian was a very observant man, and Azriel found himself almost running into him as he stopped in the small servants’ corridor and turned to look at Azriel.

“What,” Azriel asked, clipped.

“Are you upset about something?” Jurian said carefully.

“No,” Azriel offered, walking past the human. He knew where Lucien was anyway.

“I think you are,” Jurian said from behind the shadowsinger. Azriel could  _ hear _ the grin on the man.

“And what would I possibly be upset about?” Azriel asked dryly. He was upset—if he was being honest with himself. He just hadn’t managed to figure out  _ why _ yet.

Jurian huffed like he was really considering it. “No clue! Because from my side of things, last I saw  _ you _ , you and Cass were guarding over Lucien at the war camp like worried lovers.”

Azriel paused, stopping in the hallway. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” He wasn’t lying. He really didn’t have any clue what Jurian was prattling on about as the man leaned against the wall, grinning like a cat.

“Sure you don’t, bud,” Jurian said, twitching his nose in mock sympathy.

Azriel was utterly confused. It must have bled into his expression, because Jurian was grinning and then—

“Oh,” the human said, closing his mouth into a thin line, expression sobering. “I’m actually gonna… head to the kitchens. He’s just ahead.”

Azriel just nodded as Jurian departed. Odd.

He walked ahead, shaking off the feeling that Jurian  _ knew  _ something Azriel didn’t. He could feel a faint magic pulsing in a room ahead, and followed its hum. A door.

Azriel, unable to think of anything else to do, knocked. The door opened a few long seconds later. Lucien looked unsurprised on the other side, staring at the shadowsinger with a neutral expression.

“Hello,” the high fae offered. In the low light, his metal eye glinted and his scars shone. His hair was tied back with a band of leather, and he wore human clothes—a tunic and pants. He was unarmed, and heavy bags under his eyes told Azriel the male wouldn’t be much of a threat, were they to exchange blows.

“May I come in?” Azriel asked, as mildly as he could.

Lucien only half turned to allow Azriel space to pass, gesturing as in greeting. Azriel crossed the threshold, and it was only then he felt the wards.

All of Azriel’s abilities when it came to building wards were related to battle. His own wards were a literal thing—an extension of his power, filtered through his siphons and honed into physical force. Lucien’s wards were masterful—delicately crafted and guarded, toeing the line between a physical force and a purely magical concept. Sure, Azriel could break this one, simple and elegant as it was—but he would never want to. The weaknesses it presented seemed purposeful. Azriel had no idea what it did—for all the Illyrian knew, he could have just stepped into a cage of Lucien’s creation. If he prayed anymore, he would have prayed he had not.

Lucien said nothing as he sat in one of the room’s chairs while Azriel spared a glance around. The bed was made. There was no overwhelming stench of fear or hate or anger or sadness. Lucien seemed fine, if not quiet.

This was not the male Azriel had expected after receiving Jurian’s note.

“Are you okay?” Azriel asked, straight to the point, and slightly put off.

Lucien cracked half a grin at that. “Did Jurian tell you I was moping?”

Azriel was quiet for a moment. “Something like that.”

Lucien stood up smoothly, and the smile on his face was just a little sad. The shadows were uncharacteristically silent about the male before Azriel.

“I’m sorry if I worried anyone. Though, I fear I may have overstayed my welcome here. May I accompany you back to Velaris?”

Something was wrong. The shadows which sat on Azriel’s shoulders were  _ never _ quiet—it was one of the things he hated about them the most. But now they said nothing about Lucien, speaking only of the servant girl trying and failing to listen at the door, or reminiscing on Jurian, who was pouring himself a glass of whiskey one floor down. But, from what Azriel could tell, Lucien wasn’t a  _ threat _ , so the Illyrian just nodded and held out a hand.

“If you’re ready.”

Lucien grabbed his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and took Azriel's scarred hand.

“You don’t want to say goodbye?” The Illyrian offered one last time.

Lucien grinned.

“I left a note.”

As they slid through the shadows back to Velaris, Azriel faintly felt some of the wards around the room fall away—like a spider web shriveling to ash.

He wondered for a moment what he was bringing back into Velaris. Had Lucien returned from the Spring Court not the same male? He had once worn a fox mask—a gift from the now deceased Amarantha. What mask did Lucien wear now, so calm and unbothered? And was it a mistake to bring him back to his beloved city? They landed in front of the townhouse a few seconds later, and Azriel felt Lucien’s hand fall away from his own. Only time could tell, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I have no idea if Cassian's nickname is spelled 'cass' or 'cas'. I listened to the audiobooks, so I'm working in the dark half the time.  
> We get Jurian back! For a bit! I was hoping to do a bit more with this chapter, but at some point, you just need to edit and post it, and I feel like I waited too long, and just needed to move on.  
> Cheers! and happy saturday!

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read any of my previous works, you know I live off comments. If you have ever, or plan to ever leave a comment, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are why I do this. I can't wait to hear how you feel about this chapter!  
> Cheers!
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr!  
> www.tumblr.com/blog/lucien-stan


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